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The tiled floor was cool beneath Trutheless’ bare feet, the sounds of his steps echoing throughout the tall corridor. The Spire appeared to breathe around him—walls exhaling slowly, ceilings sighing against their arches, and paintings seemingly whispering as he passed them. The halls stretched while he wasn't looking, then folded back when he turned his head.
It never changed while he was watching. It waited until he blinked, or until his mind wandered—and then a doorway would be gone. He used to test it, back when he thought logical strategies would work within Shadow Milk’s domain. He’d carve little runes into corners, would count doors, and memorize the patterns on the wallpaper. Every test he did failed. His markings would either move or vanish completely, the door count was never equivalent when counted twice, and the wallpaper would never be the same as it was the day prior. He swore the Spire itself was laughing at him—laughing at his feeble attempts to make sense of anything within its walls.
Recluse could no longer tell whether the Spire was truly shifting, or if it was all a figment of his imagination. Either seemed equally possible, and that scared him. A cold tower like this was unnatural in a way that it paradoxically made sense. It threw him off so easily—never allowing him to form a routine, not once granting him a semblance of normality. It was exactly as Shadow Milk wished it to be.
Fighting it was futile. Truthless had learned that lesson early on in his stay.
The avian lowered his head, pulling up the collar of his cloak. The wings on his head flattened to his skull in reflex, small feathers pressing tight against his hair. They were poor at hiding his mood—little traitorous things that lifted when he was curious and shivered when he was uneasy. Now they were tucked close, wrapping around his head, almost as if they were protecting him. He hated that they seemed to have a mind of their own, that they were so expressive. Once, long ago, people had called them charming. They’d told him the little wings made him seem gentler, more open—understanding. Some even said they made him look divine. All they did now was betray every thought that crossed his mind.
His wings—the larger pair, the ones attached to his back—shifted restlessly from where they were folded beneath his cloak. The heavy fabric dragged against the feathers, pulling at them, making a faint rasping sound with every step he took. They itched. Dust and debris was surely caught between each and every feather, having been building up since before his arrival at the Spire. Recluse ignored it. He ignored the itch, and the ache that had slowly grown worse over the past few days. It was only a mild discomfort, he reasoned, a dull pulse that spread from the base of his wings to his shoulders and into his ribs. He told himself it was the cold, or perhaps the dryness of the Spire’s air. He assured himself of this, because the alternative—that his body was preparing for something deeper, reacting to something instinctual—was a thought he refused to entertain.
Truthless sighed softly, reaching back to adjust the cloak, fingertips grazing the curve of a flight feather. The touch made his entire wing twitch and flare before he could stop it. A few dark feathers escaped the heavy fabric, gliding down to the cold tiles. He watched as they settled, their gold tipped edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. He remembers what they’d looked like before—an enchanting ivory, so beautiful that some cookies had been certain he’d been sent from the heavens. Now they were stained a deep blue, so dark they were nearly black. And still, despite their corruption—his corruption, his transformation into Truthless Recluse—they still looked so, so fragile. So delicate, as if they’d break in the slightest of breezes.
It was disgusting.
He exhaled, before forcing them to fold back under his cloak, tight and obedient. His cloak settled over them like a lid, keeping the sound of ruffling at bay. He couldn’t afford to make noise, not when he didn’t know where Shadow Milk was, or where the beast’s attention was focused to. The jester had a way of appearing when least wanted, stepping out of corners that hadn’t existed prior to his sudden arrival. If he caught Truthless wandering in this section of the Spire again, there would be consequences—he could almost feel the bright blue strings around him, suffocating him, binding his wings and wrapping around his wrists and neck and—
He continued down the hall, footsteps light against the ground. The air within the Spire walls was cool and crisp; it felt stale, in a way, every breath he took dryer than the last. The Spire hummed in its endless rearranging rhythm, and his wings itched again, as if the sound was resonating through the feathers themselves. The itch nagging at his wings faded as he walked, replaced with an ache deep within his bones, and a hollow ringing in his ear. He froze in place, eyes glancing from one pillar to another, searching.
But… Did he want to find something? Did he want to sense Shadow Milk’s presence? Did he want to feel the beast's glare as he watched Truthless roam through parts of the Spire he was banned from? And yet the answers to his questions wouldn’t be answered.
Nothing. There was nothing there.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and kept walking, tracing his fingertips lightly along the wall, as if the cold stone might anchor him. He turned knobs as he passed, though none budged. The corridor narrowed as he crept forward, before opening wider than it’d been before. Doors lined the walls of the hall, all shut and locked tight. Except one.
What?
Ahead was one of the Spire’s many rooms. Its doorway was framed by dark tapestries that swayed despite the lack of wind. He slowed instinctively. Voices drifted through the small gap—faint, overlapping tones that echoed against carved marble and flowing drapes.
Truthless pressed closer to the wall, feathers rustling in a nervous wave. He wasn’t hiding, no, he’d simply stumbled upon this part of the Spire. He’d had no reason to announce himself, so why disturb Shadow Milk and his servants? It was entirely reasonable to pause and listen to conversations he had no intention of joining. It was entirely reasonable to keep to the shadows while passing through this part of the hall.
He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring himself, or coming up with an excuse to spout once he was inevitably caught lurking.
The light spilling from the doorway was strange—soft, fractured by prisms that hung from the ceiling like the shards of a broken mirror. He could make out a bit of movement through the crack in the door: a lilac hand adorned with sparkling gold rings, light glimmering against the curve of glassware, and the flick of a puffy white sleeve.
Shadow Milk was reclining on a small loveseat, swishing around a glass filled with crimson liquid. Even seated, he looked impossibly tall, the frame of his shoulders cutting sharp lines against the dim backdrop of the room. His hair fell lazily around him, the bright eyes within it blinking sluggishly.
Candy Apple and Black Sapphire stood before him, animated as always. Candy Apple gestured with exaggerated flourishes, her beaded bracelets clinking with every motion, white Black Sapphire hovered to her right, lounging on his staff as he added sharp commentary to whatever the other said. Recluse couldn’t make out the exact words, but he didn’t need to. He’d heard this countless times before—endless praise dressed as reports, flattery disguised as information.
Good. Shadow Milk, while not exactly caring about his servant’s near-constant admiration, was distracted.
The avian lingered in the shadow of a pillar just beyond the door, tilting his head. He watched the beast laugh softly at something Candy Apple said, the sound like low and smooth as butter—pleasant, but empty. The wings on his head flicked backwards, a nervous reflex, before fluttering forward again. He shouldn’t have been looking. Still shouldn’t be—he’d seen enough to know Shadow Milk was most likely in a bored state. That in itself should have been enough reason to retreat. Yet he didn’t move.
He watched the way the light from the crystals haloed the jester, catching in the glass of his chalice, sharpening his fanged grin. He looked almost… ethereal? So dangerous, yet so alluring. There was a beauty in it that set Truthless on edge—a calm that existed only because the rest of the room bent to his will.
It was a scene the avian had no place in. Move. He needed to move, to leave. But his feet didn’t listen. Every nerve in his back screamed; his wings were too large, too restless beneath his cloak, too uncomfortable, too bound, too itchy. The fabric seemed to get heavier, and Truthless shuddered under its weight as he finally took a step backwards, slinking farther into the shadow of the pillar. He needed to be careful—if he so much as brushed the wall, feathers would scatter across the tiles.
Shadow Milk leaned his head back against the loveseat, one arm stretched along its back, eyes half-lidded in boredom. For a moment, it seemed as if the beast’s gaze landed on him. Truthless froze, breathing halted entirely. But the look was shallow, and the beast's head lulled to the side as he opened his mouth to form a thoughtless reply.
The avian let out a slow, silent breath.
He needed to leave now, while luck held out and his feet were obeying him. Whatever curiosity had driven him this far had no business leading him closer to eventually being found. The Spire was full of halls he wasn’t permitted to wander, and rooms he wasn't allowed to enter. Every lock had a reason, according to Shadow Milk. Every reason was a rule, and tied to every rule was a punishment.
He stepped away from the glow of the room, the wings on his head brushing against the collar of his cloak as they tucked tight again. The hum of voices dulled with distance, leaving him to the sounds of the Spire’s exhales and the whispering of the portraits.
It was then, as he began to turn a corner, that he noticed another unlocked door. It wasn’t wide open—no, there was barely a sliver of faint light—but it was open nonetheless. And that was enough to make him pause.
He blinked once, expecting the illusion to correct itself. It didn’t—the door stayed ajar, and the smell of ink and glue wafted through the crack. A craft room? Recluse’s wings twitched under his cloak. The air here felt different, warmer somehow.
Shadow Milk had forbidden him from entering these rooms, more so than the others. He’d locked them with real chains and wards that hissed when approached. Once, Truthless had dared to test one, curiosity getting the better of him. The locks had exploded into a bright blue light, wrapping him with strings, leaving him bound and gasping on the floor. He hadn’t tried again.
But now—now one of those doors was open. He glanced down the hall, eyeing the faint glow still pouring from the room he’d watched.
Nothing had changed, no one had come to stop him.
The avian took one step towards the door, then another, breath shallow. The faint ruffles of his feathers marked every heartbeat, speeding up as he rested his palm against the cold metal doorknob. Was he really doing this? His hand shook as he pushed the door open.
The room almost seemed to breathe differently than the rest of the Spire. Truthless hesitated again, fingers glossing over the doorframe. The air within was still and heavy, faintly perfumed with the smell of dusty silk, old glue, and something sweet—like inky icing and marshmallow candle smoke. The lighting was softer than the rest of the Spire, coming from glass jars filled with glowing threads. They pulsed dimly, as though alive, each a heartbeat of light illuminating a different corner of the workshop.
He took a shaky step inside, bracing himself, ready for Shadow Milk to come and punish him for breaking the rules.
Immediately, the door shut behind him. His wings flicked at the noise, feathers puffing and bristling beneath his cloak before he forced them flat again. He swallowed hard, glaring at the door. It wasn’t slammed, yet its closing wasn't a coincidence either. Still, the beast failed to appear, and Recluse let out a breath before scanning the room.
There were worktables everywhere, each one cluttered in meticulous disarray—half-finished fabrics spilling over spools, ribbons draped across the tabletops like vines, glass beads scattered in careful patterns. Strange tools were arranged with what seemed to be obsessive precision: ornate scissors that shimmered in the dim light, golden needles floating in a line above a worktable—clearly in order from largest to smallest, and spools of threads that glittered and gleamed.
It was chaotic, yes, but there was an order to it, attention to detail even within the mess. This was Shadow Milk’s mind laid bare. Every surface, every strand of silk, every moving light.
Recluse shouldn’t be here.
His throat tightened. The wings on his head drooped low, brushing the sides of his face like a warning. He could almost hear the beast’s voice, that smooth, lilting tone, curling around his name—
“Oh, Nilly…”
It’d be sung to him, half amused, half disappointed. A calm, teasing tone blanketing anger at his insensitive curiosity. A reminder of the price he’d pay for being caught in the act.
And yet…
He took another hesitant step, the hem of his cloak dragging along the floor. The glow from the jars made the air shimmer faintly around his hands. He felt it, smelled it, breathed it: the soft tingle of magic, like static brushing against his dough. It wasn’t hostile, not like the Spire usually was. It was warm. Familiar, even?
The warmth drew his eyes to the far side of the room, where a single spool stood alone on its pedestal. The fabric wound around it gleamed pale as cream—ivory, impossibly soft, and covered in eyes. Not painted, not printed, but embroidered in glittering gold thread, each iris formed with obsessive care. Some blinked lazily, others stared unseeing, and a few closed as he stared, lashes glinting.
His breath hitched. He moved towards it as if pulled by Shadow Milk’s strings, one hand raising before he could stop himself. His fingers hovered above the cloth, trembling.
He could feel the faint hum of dark moon magic radiating off of it, flowing in nearly undetectable waves. It was oddly… gentle. Affectionate, even. It unsettled him—the soft, beautiful fabric coated in magic that would usually make him convulse.
Shadow Milk had made this. For all his cruelty, the beast’s hands could still create beauty. It wasn’t a shock to him, not really. The jester had crafted sets for his theatrical plays, had sewn every tapestry that lined the halls, and had made plushies of himself and his servants. He’d even hand-crafted Truthless’ own outfit, specially tailored around his wings. And yet, this was different. This was entirely Shadow Milk’s, a personal craft made to be admired. To be loved and cherished.
His fingers grazed the surface of the fabric.
It was… warm? Recluse gasped quietly, his wings twitching involuntarily beneath the cloak. The material yielded under his touch like water, weightless and smooth. For a moment, he imagined what it must have looked like while Shadow Milk worked—those long, clawed fingers threading gold through ivory, eyes narrowed in concentration, creating something simply because he could. Simply because he enjoyed it.
Truthless’ throat ached. His hand curled, clutching the edge of the fabric tightly. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be touching this. He shouldn’t have opened the door. Shouldn’t have even left his room. The thought repeated like a heartbeat—shouldn’t, shouldn't, shouldn't.
He shouldn’t be thinking of the beast like this—lonely, misunderstood, beautiful. Shadow Milk was dangerous. Manipulative. Cruel.
But in this room… In this room, filled with light and silk and quiet, Recluse couldn’t stop seeing him as broken. The wings on his head drooped lower. He swallowed, forcing himself to stay completely still, completely silent, even as his heart thudded painfully behind his ribs. Even as his traitorous wings twitched and shuffled.
Maybe that was why he let himself get so close to Shadow Milk. Why he let himself make the attempt at friendship. Why he was okay with Shadow Milk tossing him around like a toy. Because he knew what it felt like to be lonely.
The spool glimmered, as though in response to his thought. He flinched and let go, the sudden absence of warmth leaving his fingertips cold. He turned, looking back at the door. Still shut, still silent. He couldn't tell whether it had locked behind him, or if the Spire was waiting to see what he’d do next.
Recluse hesitated only a second before gathering the loose edge of the fabric into his arms. It was lighter than it looked, flowing easily when he lifted it. He folded it once, twice, as neatly as he could, though the embroidery shifted when he tried to crease it, golden eyes closing.
He shouldn’t take it.
But he was already holding it. He looked back at the jars of light, still pulsing a slow, steady rhythm. The room didn’t attack him for his thievery. It didn’t hiss or whisper or change into a labyrinth the moment he blinked.
So maybe… Maybe it’d be okay, if he took it. What’s another punishment in the pile?
He turned towards the exit, both pairs of wings folding tightly against him. The door opened easily, and the soft sound of the Spire’s natural breeze greeted him. The room was still lit up down the hall, occasionally flickering as shadows blocked it.
Still distracted. Good.
Truthless slipped fully into the corridor, ivory fabric cradled against his chest, the embroidered eyes hidden beneath the folds. He told himself he’d only keep it for a little while. Just until he found the right place for it. Just until he could breathe again.
Recluse didn’t remember leaving the craft room. One moment the ivory fabric was pressed to his chest, warm and alive beneath his hands, and the next, he was standing in the entrance to his chamber. The door behind him clicked shut, the sound soft and barely there. He blinked, once, twice, his head feeling light and airy—fogged, like he’d been sleepwalking. The fabric was still in his arms, its embroidered eyes shut as if in a deep slumber.
His room was small, carved into a bend in the tower wall, its edges curved and uneven like the inside of a shell. A faint shimmer ran through the stones, the same one that pulsed through the rest of the Spire, though muted—as if this space were half-forgotten. The air was cold enough to bite. Truthless pulled his cloak tighter, careful not to crease the fabric he carried, and stood there for a moment.
The avian wasn’t sure what to do next. He glanced at the door behind him, before turning to glare down at the embroidered cloth in his arms. Its glow had softened; the golden embroidery gleamed in the light of the Spire. The eyes remained closed. Truthless didn’t know what to expect.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t just dropped it somewhere along the way back. He’d planned to, but didn’t have the heart to let go. He should have left it laying somewhere in the Spire, waiting to be found. He could’ve at least pretended the temptation hadn’t won. But here it was, in his arms, and his room felt like the perfect place to keep it. Maybe he’d hold on to it for a little bit, until he gained the courage to face Shadow Milk. Or maybe forever, just to have something so beautiful within his reach.
But… Where should it go?
He pivoted slowly, scanning the narrow chamber. There weren’t many places to choose from: a desk pushed into the corner, a chair that had once been in pristine condition, a thin bed draped in sheets several shades darker than the walls. Every surface was uneven. Dust gathered in the cracks covering the floors. A thin draft whistled from somewhere unseen.
The idea of hiding the fabric felt wrong.
He tried to shake it off, to reason through his decision logically. It was dangerous to keep anything that belonged to Shadow Milk—even more dangerous to display it. If the beast came looking for his creation and found it here, Truthless would have no defense, no excuse. He could already imagine the voice: You stole from me, Nilly? Soft, mocking, delighted at his fear.
And yet, the thought of tucking the fabric into a drawer or cramming it beneath his bed made something twist in his chest. The Spire was full of odd, shifting things—cold metal, shards of glass and mirrors, hard shadows—this was arguably the only piece of true beauty and delicacy he’d seen in months. It didn’t deserve to be hidden.
No. No, that wasn’t it, was it? It wasn’t about the fabric. It was about who made it.
He froze, a tremor running through his very soul.
Admiration. That was what he felt. The realization was absurd, infuriating. Admiring him—admiring Shadow Milk—was the last thing he should ever do. The beast had taken everything from him, hollowed him out, stripped him of his title, his friends, his freedom. There was nothing to admire.
But even so…
He let out a shaky breath, wings flexing under his cloak as his cheeks darken. The brushed the fabric, and the soft graze of a feather against silk made him flinch. His throat felt tight. “Just the craftsmanship,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud in the empty room. “It’s fine work. That’s all.”
It was a poor excuse. But it gave him enough courage to move. He crossed the room to his bed, and laid the folded cloth atop the crumpled blankets. The color difference was striking: deep, dulled blues beneath, glowing ivory above. It looked like moonlight spilling across a dark sea.
Maybe, if he just left it there—
He smoothed it once, twice, the edge of his hand following the swirl of embroidered eyes. The golden thread gleamed as his fingers passed over it, as if reacting to his very touch. He stepped back, tilting his head, wings flicking back. Something still looked wrong.
Too flat.
He reached for one of the pillows, pulling it towards the center of the bed to lift the fabric slightly. Better, but still not right. The corners sagged unevenly. He adjusted them, tugging gently, reshaping the folds.
Still wrong.
He frowned, leaning closer, hands working almost automatically now—arranging, smoothing, repositioning. His mind quieted with the motion, thoughts slipping into a soft blur. The repetitive rhythm felt good. Safe.
He dragged another pillow closer, then the cloak he’d dropped to the floor—when had he done that? He layered them carefully beneath the fabric, shifting the cloak, patting the pillow down. The arrangement began to curve subtly inwards, a shallow dip hollowing out the middle of his bed, lined with ivory silk like a cradle. The shape pleased him more than he wanted to admit.
A faint warmth crept up his neck—he ignored it, shoving the feeling down. The wings on his head flicked once, feathers brushing his temple in a restless twitch. He stepped back, tilting his head again. Better. Not perfect, but better.
His gaze caught on the light reflecting off one of the golden eyes, and for an instant, he could’ve sworn it blinked open.
Truthless rubbed his arms, suddenly cold without his cloak covering him, and sat on the edge of the bed. The fabric was gleaming behind him, soft and warm again. The longer he looked, the less wrong it seemed—like it belonged there, in his otherwise empty, lifeless room.
His fingers drifted over the embroidery once more, tracing loops of gold, and for a moment he could almost imagine Shadow Milk’s hands doing the same, threading each eye with careful precision. The thought made something flutter low in his chest, a mix of unease and something dangerously close to longing.
He withdrew his hand quickly, as though the fabric might burn him. This was fine. It was fine. It would stay here for now. Only for a little while.
Recluse sat there for a moment longer, wings wrapping around himself for warmth. “Just for a bit,” he repeated to himself, as if saying it aloud might make it true. He stood with a sigh, stepping away from the bed sluggishly, as if wading through water. His head felt thick with fog, thoughts jumbling more and more throughout the passing time. A pulse thrummed faintly under his dough, thumping like a second heartbeat. His wings twitched, restless—dissastisfied.
Something was still off.
He could feel it, low in his ribs, humming within his bones. He wanted… no, needed, something. Something his clouded brain couldn’t make out. His fingers flexed unconsciously, searching for a task.
Truthless drifted towards the far corner of his room, where an old blanket was slumped across an armchair. Its crimson color had long-since faded, edges frayed beyond repair, fabric coarse beneath his fingers. It wasn’t nearly as lovely as the other fabric, neither was it something he should care for. It wasn’t good enough for his—
But the weight of the blanket was grounding, and Truthless pulled it into his arms without another thought. Then, after folding the old linen over his arms, he leaned down to grab the worn-out pillow that had been buried beneath it. His movements were quiet, methodical—done without a thought behind them, as if they were simply second nature. He turned, the bottoms of his wings brushing against the cool tiled floor, and placed both items at the foot of the bed. The cloth already there gleamed faintly, waiting for him.
He didn’t think. He just moved.
The blanket went first, spread over the lower edge, tugged and reshaped until it folded neatly along the curve of the soft structure, before being covered by the ivory cloth. Then the pillow—that went near the top, pressed into a slight dip in the material. He adjusted it again. Too high. Too flat. Too uneven. His hands moved faster now, reshaping, tucking, smoothing.
The rhythm returned easily. A breath out. Another in. The dull ache at the base of his wings grew stronger, curling through his shoulders. He ignored it, despite his fingers trembling as he worked. Move the pillow there, fold his cloak over that, cover everything with the gleaming ivory silk.
Something—Something was still wrong. The shape was fine now, but it was missing a piece. He turned again, searching for—
His gaze caught on the far wall.
A small shape sat in the corner, half-shadowed by the bed’s post. His heart lurched when he recognized it: that ridiculous plush. The poor attempt at a likeness of the beast himself—as if something so soft and malleable could live up to the true horror of the beast of deceit. The seams were multicolored, the stuffing lumpy, the grin too wide. When it had first appeared in his room, Truthless had tossed it across the space without a thought.
He shouldn't want it. He didn’t want it.
But the sight of it now made something inside of him tighten.
The wings on his head fluttered restlessly. He hesitated, but his hand was already moving before he could stop it. He reached down, brushing dust from its brightly colored fabric. It was soft beneath his fingers, absurdly so. His throat bobbed as he lifted it.
It smelled like blueberries and sour yogurt—like Shadow Milk.
He froze, staring down at it, then glanced over his shoulder, as if he was being watched. The plush stared up at him, and he glared back. He should throw it back where it belonged, leave it in the corner to rot.
And yet—surely there would be no harm in setting it by the bed. Just for a moment. Just so it wasn’t staring at him from the dark.
He turned. And froze. The fog smothering his brain seemed to clear, if only for a moment.
His bed—no, it wasn’t a bed, not really. The blankets were drawn up and around in soft curves, layered out into a shallow, rounded shape. The ivory fabric glowed dimly at the center, lined with his cloak’s dark folds and the old blankets' frayed edges. A perfect, beautifully made hollow.
A nest.
He’d built a nest.
For a second, his heart seemed to stop. Then the realization slammed into him, so hard his knees nearly buckled. The plush fell from his hand, landing with a muted thud. “No…”
His voice was trembling, “No, no, no—”
He stumbled backwards, hand gripping the edge of a bookshelf for support. His wings flared wide behind him, feathers brushing against stone walls, trembling with the surge of panic rushing through him. The air felt thick. His heart raced.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He’d planned around this. He’d been so careful.
The warmth crawling beneath his dough was unmistakable now—the way his chest felt too tight, his back too warm, the ache spreading from the base of his wings down through his spine. His instincts had betrayed him.
He pressed a shaking hand to his temple. “No, it’s just the air. It has to be,” he reassured himself.
But the words sounded hollow, a lie he couldn’t convince himself of. The nest sat before him, radiant and perfectly made. It was disgusting.
Truthless stared at it for a long, terrible moment, before sinking to the floor. His feathers were trembling in disarray, the echo of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Everything he’d worked for, every plan laid out so carefully—ruined. And by what? Surely not the cool winter months, or the freezing Spire of Deceit.
What had gone so, so wrong?
The portal cracked open with a loud snap, bathing Truthless’ room in a bright blue light.
“Oh Nilly! I’ve come to relieve you of your loneliness!” Shadow Milk announced to the empty air as he stepped through, his voice bouncing off the cool walls of the Spire. “I think I’ve entertained my two minions for long enough, don’t you agree Nilla?” He grinned, turning to the bed with flare. “Now now, it’s rude to ignore—”
The room swallowed his words whole. The air in the space was heavy—humid and warm, yet somehow still so cold, the faint scent of feathers and bitter vanilla dusted over the cool stone. His eyes adjusted slowly to the golden glow, not from a lamp or window, but from the bed itself.
Shadow Milk’s brows knit together, irritation clear. “Oh wonderful,” his hands moved to his hips angrily. “I leave you alone for a few hours and you go back to sleep?” The beast floats closer, sharp eyes trailing along the mess of pillows and blankets.
“Seriously Nilla, you’re lazier than Eternal Sugar,” he huffed, fangs glinting as silence met him yet again. No snarky comments, no biting tones, not even a groan.
The beast shifted even closer, intent on pulling Truthless up by his collar so the thief would stop ignoring him. His eyes landed back on the cluttered bed, gaze following the shape.
A ring, meticulously crafted by tanned dough, not sloppy nor accidental. A precise curl of blankets around the perimeter of the mattress, forming a shallow, insulating wall. Each pillow, each blanket, pressed and prodded into deliberate angles and planned-out shapes.
His face heated slightly. Perhaps the Spire had gotten too warm.
Truthless lay curled tightly within the ring, legs drawn in, wings wrapped around his body in a trembling cocoon. Sweat glistened faintly on his brow, curls sticking to his flushed dough. His breaths came shallow and uneven, each exhale brushing the fabric beneath him. His feathers shook with every inhale.
Recluse let out a small, pathetic whimper.
Shadow Milk’s pulse spiked violently, warmth quickly filling his cheeks again. No, no—absolutely not. A grimace was forced onto his reddening face as he scoffed loudly. “Stop this Nilla—stop making those… sounds—”
Another whimper.
“Stop it!” The beast snapped, heat rising to the tips of his pointed ears. “You’re doing this on purpose. You must be—is this some half-baked attempt at making me lower my guard so you can leave me? You should know better than any other cookie how stupid that’d be, as if I’d actually believe some silly plan—”
The beast was ranting now, eyes narrowing as he listed out every reason Truthless’ escape plan would never work. Recluse listened to the ramblings, head tilting up just enough to watch as the beast floated higher and higher. His pupils were blown wide, wings twitching up before crashing back down, far too heavy for him to hold up. The ancient’s mind was fogged, his body sluggish—weighed down by his instincts.
He needed to stay put. He needed to stay in his nest and find a—
“Mate?” His voice was strained, the call for the other breaking at the last syllable. But it worked, and Truthless watched as Shadow Milk’s mouth froze, and the train of jumbled noise stopped.
The jester’s eyes were wide, mouth hanging open as his mind reeled. Shifting closer, the pieces of the puzzle finally slid into place as he fully registered what it was that his Nilly was laying in. It should have been obvious, despite it being so long since he’d seen one, and it left the beast mentally screaming at his oversight.
A nest, crafted thoughtlessly, yet so perfectly made. It was just like the ones he’d helped Eternal Sugar construct, before their corruption and eventual fall-out.
But it made no sense. Beast-Yeast, while not completely covered in snow, was still in the middle of winter. There were no birds in sight, and the air outside was as cold as could be. The Spire itself was no better—the beast kept it as chilly as his servants could handle, which was definitely cooler than the frigid outside air.
So why on Earthbread had Pure Vanilla gone into heat?
Shadow Milk stared, frozen in place, the question echoing through his very dough. His mind rejected it immediately, almost violently, because it shouldn’t be possible—because it wasn’t possible.
Pure Vanilla should have never gone into heat. Not in the winter, not in the Spire, and definitely not around him. But the steadily growing beat within his soul jam told a different story.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head once, twice, as if the motion could physically dislodge the conclusion forming in his mind. “No, this is—this is ridiculous. This is stupid. You’re stupid, Nilla.”
Truthless didn’t respond—not verbally, at least. His wings twitched helplessly, the tips dragging weakly across the blankets. His breath was shallow, fogging faintly in the cold air before puffing into nothing. Another soft, broken noise slipped past his lips; it was barely a sound, more like a whined exhale than a word.
Shadow Milk growled. He hated this. He hated that the stupid thief lying pathetically in his Spire made his heart lurch. “This—this is your fault,” he hissed, fangs barring as he pointed a sharpened claw at the avian. “You’re doing something wrong. You must be. You’re always doing something wrong—always messing something up and getting in my way!”
He floated lower, form rigid, growling as a mess of bundled emotions raged in his chest. “It’s always your fault,” He huffed, voice rising, “You’re the reason I feel like this—I hate you, Pure Vanilla, I hate the way you make me feel.”
A lie had never felt so wrong slipping from his tongue. The beast grimaced, heeled boots firmly planted on the ground as he balled his fists.
Throughout his entire outburst, Recluse had never lifted his head even once. His eyes were glassy, unfocussed as he watched the beast’s blurry form thrash about in anger. His golden locks clung damp to his forehead, and his feathers ruffled with each too-fast breath. He looked fragile. Shadow Milk’s throat tightened. He looked…
No, no absolutely not. Shadow Milk shoved the feelings down so hard he nearly choked on it. He lifted his chin defiantly. “You can’t possibly be in heat. Not here. Not now. Not—” his voice dipped, “—not because of me.”
His stomach flipped inside of him. He should leave. He could snap his fingers and poof—out of sight, out of mind. He could be gone in seconds, then return once the little thief regained his senses, and pretend all of this never—
“Mate…”
The whisper was barely audible, yet it tore through Shadow Milk like a knife through butter. He stiffened, eyes widening, soul jam throbbing. His face flushed hotter than before, so hot it bordered on painful. His heart gave a single, violent thump that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
“No,” he croaked, the word strained. “Don’t—don’t call me that.”
Shadow Milk stood straight, forcing arrogance into every inch of himself as he sauntered forward—click, click, click—each step against smooth tile louder than it should’ve been, sharp and theatrical. He pretended the sound grounded him—it didn’t. His pulse was still lodged somewhere in his throat, soul jam still throbbing harshly.
He reached the bedside, and the first thing he saw made his eye twitch.
Fabric. His fabric. Hidden under Recluse’s large wings, yet laid so lovingly atop the pillows and blankets that no doubt made up the rest of the structure.
Truthless had lined his nest with it.
His precious, handcrafted linen that definitely was not made in the image of Pure Vanilla. The gold thread he’d painstakingly embroidered into the ivory silk blinked lazily in his presence. “So,” Shadow Milk drawled, voice tight but smugly layered, “not only have you gone into heat in my Spire, letting yourself become more of a nuisance than usual, but you’ve stolen from me.” He leaned over, dragging a claw through Truthless’ hair as the avien watched him through hazed eyes. His gaze drifted lower, until his eyes were clearly locked onto the ancient’s barely visible soul jam, the brooch hastily clipped onto Recluse’s leotard. “Again…”
No response. Not even a flinch. The ancient only shifted slightly, a soft rustle of feathers and fabric. His wings fluttered helplessly, the gilded tips dragging over the silk. A low hum escaped him, light and dazed, not nearly the reaction of a thief who knew he’d done something wrong.
Shadow milk bristled. “Tsk tsk, Nilla,” he clicked his tongue, wagging a claw. “You know wandering into my private craft rooms is against the rules here.”
Truthless did not appear to grasp the concept of rules, not in his current state, at least. It was like Shadow Milk was talking to a brick wall. The avian’s eyes drifted vaguely towards the beast’s silhouette, pupils huge and unfocused. His body curled a fraction tighter, arms firm around whatever it was that he was holding.
Shadow Milk’s composure was cracking in front of him. He frowned hard, arms crossing tightly over his chest as he scrambled to salvage whatever he could of his theatrical act. “Of course,” he huffed, “this is what I get for inviting a thief into my humble abode.”
It was a miserable attempt at sounding offended, and an even worse attempt at ignoring the way his pulse jumped when Truthless buried his face into ivory fabric.
Then he saw it. A flash of light blue fabric from within the avian’s grasp that made him freeze. It was the doll. The ridiculous, lopsided, poorly sewn little effigy he’d made purely to irritate Pure Vanilla. Its stuffing was uneven, colors slightly off, pattern widely inaccurate—and intentionally so. He’d crafted the thing while laughing to himself, imagining the look on his Nilly’s face when he found the disfigured replica sitting ominously in his room. Truthless had hated it. He could barely stand looking at it, always tossing it into the corner whenever it showed up within arms reach.
And now? Now it was curled against Nilly's chest, held within a firm grasp. Recluse’s arms were wrapped protectively around the plush’s little torso, sharp nails scratching along its blue felted hair as if it were something precious. Something safe.
Shadow Milk blinked owlishly, “...What?”
His voice came out wrong—thin and weak, too soft for a beast like him. He cleared his throat sharply, forcing a sneer onto his face to cover the heat crawling across his dough. “Oh, unbelievable,” he tried again, louder, voice dripping with mock disdain. “My plush, Nilla? Really? This is rather pathetic, even for you.”
The ancient barely reacted. He only clutched tighter, flingers trembling, wings curling protectively around himself and the stuffed imitation of the monster looming over him. A breathy hiccup escaped him, and he nuzzled closer to the soft plush.
The beast frowned as his soul jam sparked. “What are you—why—” he sputtered, gesturing at the plush like it had personally offended him. “You hate that thing! Don’t pretend like it’s suddenly sentimental!”
He knew that look—knew that grip. Eternal Sugar had clung to soft objects the same way Truthless was now; holding whatever felt close to a partner, whatever her instincts had mistook for warmth, safety, and presence.
And the thing Pure Vanilla was clinging to… was the closest thing he had to him. The realization struck so sharp he nearly stumbled back.
The jester's heart thumped—furiously, traitorously—at the sight of Truthless clinging to the stupid little plush. His plush. He could feel the warmth blooming through his dough like an infection. With a sharp inhale he straightened, forcing out a bark of bitter laughter. “Hah! Pathetic,” he scoffed, baring his fangs as he forced himself steady. “Look at you, hugging that thing like it’s—like I’m—you’re absurd.”
Truthless curled tighter around the wretched thing, rubbing his cheek across the fabric. It made the beast’s pulse jump, and he grit his teeth. He wanted a real reaction. Not this fogged, instinct-driven nonsense. He wanted Truthless to insult him, snap back, glare at him with his wings puffed up aggressively.
The beast tapped his heel on the floor, irritation swelling in his chest. His eyes narrowed.
Maybe if he… his fingers twitched. There’d been a spell he’d use for Eternal Sugar, something to clear her mind temporarily.
He floated forward abruptly, leaning down until he hovered directly over the avian’s hazy-eyed face. Truthless blinked up at him slowly, gaze unfocused.
“Now now, that just wont do Nilly.” Shadow Milk snapped his clawed fingers sharply in front of the ancient’s nose. He watched in satisfaction as some of the haze cleared from the avian’s eyes. Truthless blinked again, eyes clearing, confusion settling over his features.
Shadow Milk hummed. “There we are. My poor Nilla, trapped in his own mind, a slave to his instincts. Good thing your humble jester knows just the remedy for that, hm?”
Truthless’ brows furrowed. It was subtle, but it was something—a spark of recognition, awareness returning in shaky pieces. His voice came out rough, strained from exhaustion. “What—what did you do?”
Shadow Milk let out an exaggerated sigh, as if he were exhausted by Recluse’s very existence. “I simply suppressed your…issue. Only temporarily, of course.” He trailed his claws slowly through damp golden curls, delighting in the sharp glare it earned him. “You should thank me, you know. You were putting on quite the pathetic show.”
The avian growled—weak, but real. Shadow Milk’s eyes gleamed in delight. “There it is! Finally awake enough to bare your little fangs at me,” he cooed mockingly, tapping a claw against Truthless’ cheek. “Naturally, the spell will wear off soon. And, when it does, your heat will come back twice as strong. A shame no doubt, but it’s the price you’ll pay for breaking my rules.”
Recluse stiffened. His gaze dropped to the ivory fabric beneath him, panic flickering across his features. “I didn’t—” he began, but the words dissolved into a sudden, uncontrollable shiver. His breath caught in his throat, the wings on his head twitching. A soft, involuntary whine escaped him, and his hand shot up to clamp over his mouth.
Shadow Milk felt the sound like it was a punch to the gut.
He masked it with a snicker. “Oh, I should mention the spell doesn’t stop your body from continuing its cycle.” His tone was dripping with false nonchalance. “It only keeps your mind from melting into a puddle of embarrassing nonsense.” He reached out again—too casually, too deliberately—dragging a claw down the length of the avian’s wing.
Truthless jerked violently. A sharp, pained huff tore out of him, wings snapping shut. His whole body curled inward, shoulders trembling as he buried his face deeper into the plush clutched against his chest.
Shadow Milk froze. His heart lurched, his breath caught. And instantly—instantly—he forced another sneer onto his face, like he could claw back his feelings if he just acted cruel enough. “What—” he scoffed, voice wavering despite his best efforts, “are your wings really that sensitive?”
“As if you didn’t know that.” Truthless groaned, glaring daggers up at him even as he tried in vain to shield himself with his wings. The movement exposed more than it hid.
Shadow Milk’s breath hitched. Feathers were broken and displaced, bent at odd angles and covered in dirt and grime. The feathers at the tips of his wings were discolored, caked in dust and filled with fragments of debris they’d picked up from dragging along the Spire floor. Recluse’s wings were in a horrid state, full of filth that only accumulated after days—no, weeks—of neglect.
He wanted to be shocked. He wanted to gasp at the surprise of Truthless’ wings being in such a poor state.
But he wasn’t. Of course Pure Vanilla had let his wings fall to ruin. He’d pushed past the discomfort and ignored every warning his body must’ve been screaming at him. Of course; if the little thief couldn’t even handle feeding himself, then clearly his wings stood no chance either.
Shadow Milk’s jaw clenched. He hated this. He hated seeing his Nilly like this—shaking and fevered and falling apart. It made something within him twist painfully. He hated that, for a split second, he wanted to crawl into Truthless’ nest and preen his wings, like he’d done for Eternal Sugar a millennia ago.
The beast stepped forward before he even realized he had moved, his boots clinking on tile until his knees pressed against the mattress. His breath was shallow as his fingers curled around the edge of the nest. “Nilly—” he swallowed hard, forcing his voice into something taunting, something cruel, anything but what he actually felt. “It’s against the rules to neglect your own health. You know that.”
It should’ve sounded mocking, as if he were scolding a misbehaving child. But his voice was too soft, laced with emotions he refused to acknowledge.
Truthless groaned again, wings twitching helplessly against his sides. “I can’t—can’t preen myself—” His breath hitched into a broken whine, “—gave up a while ago.” The avian exhaled shakily, turning to Shadow Milk with an almost pleading expression. “Just go away if you’re only here to mock me.” The request was muttered weakly, Recluse’s forehead pressed into the ridiculous plush like it could save him from the humiliation.
Good, this was good. He can leave now. He should walk out, slam the door, and let the avian wallow in the consequences of his own terrible choices. He could laugh in his face later, tease him for being so weak, coldly remind him that his heat wasn’t an excuse for theft—Shadow Milk turned on his heel.
A tiny, strangled sound slipped from the nest behind him. A whine. Quiet, but not quiet enough.
Slowly, too slowly, he turned back. Truthless lay curled and trembling, eyes shining with pain and fog. The beast’s throat tightened. He exhaled once, sharply.
“Alright then Birdy,” he murmured, voice dipping into a dangerous softness he immediately tried to bury. He set a knee onto the edge of the mattress, leaning into the nest’s glow. “If you can’t take care of yourself…”
His claw hovered above the ruined feathers. “... I’ll just have to do it for you.”
Truthless barely reacted when the mattress dipped, Shadow Milk sliding into his nest uninvited. Perhaps he should have said something. Should’ve hissed at him, kicked him out, thrown something, anything. But instead…
Instead, a low sigh slipped out of him the moment claws brushed through his feathers. It felt… Good. Really good.
He melted into the touch before he could stop himself, body loosening, wings sagging as those sharp, careful claws swept through the mess of grime and ruined feathers. A warmth bloomed in his chest, loosening the tight knot of pain that had been strangling his ribs for hours. He didn’t even realize he’d spoken until he heard his own voice.
“...You’re surprisingly good at this.”
Truthless felt the beast’s gaze shift, the hands working through his feathers pausing. Shadow Milk’s voice came, smug and instant in response. “Well of course I am!” He scoffed. “I’m good at everything.”
The avian turned his head just enough to glare at the cookie, eyes half-lidded and sluggish.
Shadow Milk scoffed again, louder this time. “Don’t look at me like that, Nilla. I’ve done this before.” His claws resumed their gentle, patient strokes. “I used to help Eternal Sugar preen her wings.”
Truthless hummed at the explanation—not quite a response to the beast’s statement. His throat felt thick, words sticking. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Wasn’t sure he could say anything with the haze slowly creeping back in.
The jester worked with precision, combing through feathers that hadn’t seen a proper preening in months—cleaning the dirt from the quills, loosening knots, smoothing bent barbs back into place with care that felt uncanny. Every few strokes, the beast would pluck out a broken feather with a muttered insult or click of disapproval. “Really, Nilly? Letting them get this bad? It’s embarrassing, honestly.”
Recluse couldn’t bring himself to argue. He could barely even keep himself awake. His body leaned forward, curling more securely around the plush in his arms. His fingers tightened onto the felted torso, unconsciously dragging the imitation of the beast closer to his chest as he sank deeper into the nest’s warmth.
Truthless felt the hands in his wings still for a single heartbeat, as though the beast were staring at the way he hugged that stupid plush tighter. Shadow Milk paused. The avian’s cheeks warmed, and he hid his face against the soft blue fabric, refusing to meet the gaze he could feel burning into the back of his skull.
The claws resumed—slower, more deliberate, until they finally finished.
The avian startled when the pressure shifted, hands finally moving away from his flight wings. They slid upwards, fingers against the smaller, softer wings atop his head.
A shiver jolted down his spine. His head wings were sensitive—really, sensitive.
Shadow Milk clicked his tongue, the sound sharp but gentle, and Truthless wasn’t sure if it was necessarily irritated, or… fond?
“Calm down, Nilly.” The beast murmured, fingers sweeping carefully through downy blue feathers. “Be a good birdy and stay still, wont you?”
Truthless tried. He really did, but the haze was clawing its way back into his skull, soft and warm and heavy. Every brush of Shadow Milk’s claws was another needle of heat pricking beneath his dough, muddling his focus.
The beast’s hands pressed lightly into his feathers, hesitating as a faint chirp slipped from the ancient’s throat. It was a soft, instinctive sound, one Shadow Milk hadn’t heard before. Truthless had made sure to keep his hybrid traits at bay, but now… He didn’t even register his own voice.
Shadow Milk froze. The avian could feel the beast’s breath catch behind him, the warmth of it brushing his neck. When had the jester gotten so close? Truthless hummed, trying to urge the claws to move again, his wings fluttering.
The beast resumed his work, the claws tracing through his feathers trembled ever so slightly. The motions felt stiffer, more resigned. When Truthless dared to peek back at him, he caught a glimpse of deepening color across the cookies cheeks.
He looked so… flustered. Because of… Truthless?
The thought made his own face warm. The haze gladly swallowed any remaining logic whole, replacing it with something softer, sweeter. Recluse trilled. Shadow Milk was being so kind to him. His mate was so caring, so gentle.
The avian chirped again—content. He leaned into the claws still working through his feathers, eyes drooping shut as a hum vibrated in his chest. It felt so good. His wings were clean, the pain in his chest had faded. His body was relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in… in years.
And it was all thanks to him. All thanks to his mate helping him. Protecting him. Touching him.
He curled even tighter around the plush in his arms—his stand-in, his little imitation of the beast tending him—and a wave of heat rippled up his spine. He wanted…
He wanted more.
Recluse turned, slow and deliberate, as though the decision had been made long before his mind caught up. Shadow Milk’s claws slipped from their place on his secondary wings, hanging in the air, the beast clearly surprised the avian had moved at all.
Truthless didn’t stop. He slid forward, distance closing, getting closer than he’d ever dared before. He placed a trembling hand on the centre of the beast’s chest, pushing until the jester’s back met the curved wall of pillows and blankets. A low warble spilled from Truthless as he settled himself atop the other cookie's hips. His flight wings flared out once for balance, before folding tight again.
“What are you—?” Shadow Milk was silenced with a touch. Warm palms slid over any exposed dough they could find—over his collarbone, throat, the sharp edge of his jaw, slowing, but never fully stopping. “Nilla—”
The avian cut that off, too, leaning down and crashing their mouths together.
The kiss was messy, desperate, and open-mouthed. Shadow Milk’s lips burned hotter than Truthless expected, and the taste—sharp blueberry yogurt, dark sugar, almost electric—flooded him at once. A chirp vibrated in his chest. Recluse licked along the seam of the beast’s lips, pushing inside the moment they parted on a startled breath, and moaned softly when Shadow Milk’s tongue finally rose to meet his.
The beast growled low in his throat, the sound pouring straight into Truthless’ core, drawing an involuntary roll of hips that dragged another hiss from the jester. Claws dug into the avian’s shoulder, pushing Recluse away.
Truthless kept their foreheads together, panting against swollen lips that tasted like blueberries and passion. “More,” he whispered, voice raw. His thumb traced the line of Shadow Milk’s jaw, reverent and possessive. “Why’d you stop, I need—”
Shadow Milk huffed, pushing the avian as far as he could. “Nilla—Nilla stop, you’re… You aren’t in your right mind.”
Truthless ignored the words. The heat inside him had coiled tighter while they kissed; it throbbed now in slow, heavy pulses that made the rest of the room feel thin and unreal. He rolled his hips again, deliberate, dragging the thin fabric of his leotard against the sleek bodysuit stretched over Shadow Milk’s dough. The friction tore a low, helpless groan from the jester’s throat, and the sound poured straight into Truthless’ core.
His mate had been so gentle earlier, he had taken care of him, made him feel good—why was he refusing Truthless now?
“Mate took care of me,” Recluse mumbled, words thick and clumsy on his tongue. “Preened me… touched me… why won’t mate give me the rest?” His fingers scrabbled at the high ruffled collar, at the ornate brooch holding the beast’s gleaming soul jam. “I need you. Need more—”
Shadow Milk caught his wrists in one swift motion, pinning them together between long, clawed fingers. Truthless whined and twisted against the restraint, but the beast’s grip was unbreakable. His wings flared, feathers brushing against the nest’s curved walls before folding again in agitation.
“Please—” He ground down hard, chasing any reaction, any waver the beast would give. “Please, Shadow Milk—Mate… want you—”
The eyes in the jester's hair snapped wide, pupils blown. His soul jam flared brightly, and for a second, the grip on the ancient’s wrists loosened, claws trembling against his dough; then he clamped down again, harder, as if the beast was holding himself back more than Truthless.
The avian felt the tremor race through them, and he leaned forward, lips grazing the corner of Shadow Milk’s mouth. “Shadow Milk,” he breathed, voice shaking. “I know what I want.” His lips pressed down, grazing the jester’s own before he pulled away again. “You. I want you, Mate…”
Shadow Milk’s resistance cracked with a sound that was half groan, half surrender. The claws binding Truthless’ wrists loosened and fell away, fingers uncurling as though the fight had been wrung out of them. Truthless didn’t wait. He surged forward, palms cupping the sharp lines of the jester’s jaw, thumbs pressing hard beneath the cheekbones as he dragged their mouths together again.
This time Shadow Milk let him in without protest. Their lips met open and wet, a messy slide of heat and need. Truthless pushed his tongue past fangs that could have torn him apart, and hummed as Shadow Milk’s own rose to meet him, curling, tasting, claiming the space the avian offered, before taking more. A low hum vibrated in the ancient's chest, approval and hunger braided together, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.
His hands refused to stay still. They left the beast’s face and clawed downward, nails catching on the high ruffled collar, fabric fraying with every frantic tug. The ornate brooch gleamed against the bright cobalt soul jam that was flaring its bright glow against Truthless’ knuckles. He wanted it gone—wanted every layer between them gone. The sleek black bodysuit stretched tight across Shadow Milk’s chest, mocking him with its seamless fit. Truthless raked his nails along the seam at the shoulder and felt the spandex protest, threads beginning to part.
Shadow Milk made a muffled sound into the kiss—something between a growl and a laugh—and his tongue swept deeper, mapping the roof of Truthless’ mouth, curling against his tongue until the avian’s head spun. Long fingers settled on the avian's hips, gripping hard enough that claws pricked dough. Recluse rolled forward instinctively, chasing the pressure, and the thin layer of his leotard dragged against dark fabric in a way that made his breath stutter.
Then Shadow Milk’s right hand lifted from his hip, and the sharp snap of his fingers seemed to echo throughout the nest.
Time seemed to slow, and then every scrap of cloth between them simply ceased to exist.
Truthless’ leotard, the jester’s elaborate bodysuit—gone. Nothing remained except dough against dough, heat against heat. The sudden bareness tore a startled warble from the avian’s throat, high and raw. His wings flared wide, gilded feathers brushing the nest’s curved walls before snapping shut again. Cool air kissed the slick folds between his thighs, and then there was only Shadow Milk beneath him, warm and solid and unmistakably hard.
Truthless dropped his weight without thinking. His cunt met the rigid length of the beast’s cock in one slick glide, and the shock of it punched the air from his lungs. He moaned—loud, broken, shameless—into Shadow Milk’s mouth and ground down again, slow and deliberate, coating the jester in the wet evidence of how long he had needed this. Each roll of his hips dragged his clit along that heat, sent sparks shooting up his spine, and made his thighs tremble.
Shadow Milk’s head thumped back against the pillows. The eyes in his hair were blown wide, gaze trained onto Recluse’s hips. A ragged sound escaped him, almost a laugh, almost a curse. His hands clamped onto Truthless’ hips again, claws dimpling dough, guiding the next roll with bruising strength.
Truthless couldn’t stop. He rocked forward, backward, chasing friction, chasing the stretch he hadn’t yet earned. Every slide left him wetter, the obscene sound of it echoing loudly in the quiet nest. His own arousal painted the beast’s length, dripping down onto powdered blue dough, glistening in the fractured light of the soul jam that still hung from Shadow Milk’s discarded collar next to them.
“Please,” he heard himself whisper against the jester’s lips, voice cracked open. “Please, inside—”
Shadow Milk’s grip tightened, almost painful. His hips jerked upward once, involuntary, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Recluse’s entrance and catching there. The avian whined and ground down, trying to take him, but the angle was wrong and the beast held him still.
“Not yet,” Shadow Milk rasped, voice ragged, eyes in his hair blinking frantically. His thumb swept across Truthless’ hipbone. “Not until I make you beg for it, little thief.” That’s right, Truthless hadn’t received his punishment yet…
The ancient shuddered, wings fluttering, and he ground down harder, desperate for more than teasing pressure. The nest cradled them both, ivory silk warm beneath his knees, feathers trembling against the curved walls. He could feel Shadow Milk’s pulse through the cock pressed against him, could see the soul jam flaring brighter with every shared breath, every slick roll of hips.
He leaned forward, forehead against the jester’s, and let another broken warble spill free. “Mate,” he breathed, the word soft and ruined. “Please, mate—”
Shadow Milk growled, and before Truthless could rock down again, the jester’s hands snapped to his hips and lifted—just enough to break the slick drag of cunt against cock. Truthless whined, confused, as the promised heat suddenly disappeared. His thighs trembled. He tried to chase it, but Shadow Milk shifted beneath him, sitting up against the nest’s curved wall and dragging Truthless backwards until the avian straddled his thighs instead of his lap. The new angle left Truthless’ slick folds in the space between the beast’s thighs, the hard length he wanted now resting hot and unreachable in front of him.
“Enough,” Shadow Milk tutted. One hand locked around Truthless’ hip, claws pricking dough, holding him perfectly still. He began to slowly explore the avian’s body—down his tanned sides, over the curve of his waist, across the sensitive span where wings met back. Feathers puffed and fluttered under every deliberate stroke.
Truthless trilled—shaky and pleading—and tried to grind forward into empty air. The hand on his hip refused to yield. “Hush, birdy,” Shadow Milk murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”
Only then did his free hand drift lower. Claws grazed the swollen bundle of nerves just above Truthless’ slit—barely a touch, yet the avian jolted, wings flaring wide as a broken cry spilled from his throat. Shadow Milk circled once, slow and cruel, watching every shudder with the eyes that gleamed in his hair.
Recluse’s head dropped forward, forehead pressing to the jester’s collarbone. His breath came in ragged bursts against warm dough, each exhale a fractured chirp. The claws never hurried; they traced every fold, every sensitive inch, learning the shape of his desperation with maddening patience. When a single claw tip circled his entrance without pushing in, Truthless sobbed and tried to bear down, chasing more, but the grip on his hip held him mercilessly in place.
Shadow Milk chuckled, low and dark and pleased. One claw kept circling the slick rim of the avian’s entrance, teasing, never quite breaching. Each pass drew another impatient chirp from the ancient, until the sounds blurred together into one long, pleading note. “Such a needy little bird,” the jester murmured. Then, without warning, he pressed upward.
A single claw carefully slid into Truthless in one slow, deliberate push, and the ancient’s entire body seized around it. A trill tore from his throat, wings flaring wide and encapsulating. The digit crooked inside him, just once, and sparks burst behind his eyes.
He lurched forward and crashed their mouths together—desperate, open, hungry. His tongue shoved past Shadow Milk’s fangs, trying to pour every ounce of want into the kiss. Shadow Milk answered with a growl and another thrust of his finger.
Then, the iron grip on Truthless’ hip loosened, just barely. It was all the permission the avian needed. Recluse rolled downward hard, swallowing the claw to the second knuckle, then further when Shadow Milk let him take what he chased. The angle was perfect now; every grind dragged the palm of the jester’s hand against his clit and sent his finger deeper inside. Heat coiled low and vicious in his belly, but it still wasn’t enough. One claw couldn’t fill the ache that had lived under his dough for months.
He broke the kiss only to breathe, lips sliding messily along Shadow Milk’s jaw, tasting blueberries and sugar. “More,” he whined against the dough, kissing his way up to the base of a pointed ear. He ground down again, harder, thighs trembling. A soft, needy coo spilled out of him as the claw curled deliberately inside, brushing something that made his vision spark white. “Give me more.”
“Greedy bird,” the jester growled, but the words trembled with want. A second claw joined the first—slow, careful, stretching him open further—until Truthless sobbed into the curve of his neck and rocked helplessly between them.
Recluse licked a desperate stripe up the side of Shadow Milk’s throat, tasting the pulse that hammered there. “More,” he demanded again, voice muffled against warm dough, hips rolling in tiny, frantic circles that chased depth and pressure and everything he’d been denying himself. “Please, mate, I need—”
Another low, indulgent chuckle. The claws inside him scissored gently, opening him wider, and Truthless cried out, wings snapping wide, feathers trembling against the silk walls of the nest.
It didn’t take long before Truthless reached the end of his patience.
Shadow Milk’s claws were still scissoring, slow and deliberate, when the avian snarled—a raw, frustrated sound—and shoved both palms against the jester’s chest. The push caught Shadow Milk off-guard, and he toppled backwards into the nest with a startled gasp, head thumping against the curved silk wall for a second time.
Truthless didn’t give him time to recover. He rose up on shaking thighs, dislodging those teasing claws with a wet sound. Cool air kissed his open, dripping cunt, and he whined as his hand shot down to wrap Shadow Milk’s cock.
The length was thick, burning hot, and absolutely drenched in Recluse’s own slick. He angled the blunt head against his entrance and slammed himself down in one brutal drop. The stretch punched the air from his lungs. A loud, broken moan tore out of him as Shadow Milk’s cock filled him to the hilt, thick enough to ache, long enough that the head nudged deep and perfect inside. His walls fluttered wildly around the intrusion, trying to adjust, trying to pull him even deeper.
Below him, Shadow Milk groaned. His hands flew to Truthless’ hips, claws pricking dough, but he didn’t try to slow the avian down. The eyes in his hair rolled back, several fluttering shut as the ancient lifted again, thighs trembling, and dropped a second time, harder. The wet slap of dough on dough echoed in the nest. Again. Again. Each downward thrust drove Shadow Milk deeper, dragged the thick length along every sensitive spot inside him until his vision sparked white at the edges.
“Mine,” Truthless chirped. He braced both hands on Shadow Milk’s chest, claws digging into blue dough for leverage, and rode him with single-minded desperation. His wings flared wide for balance, flapping slightly. Slick dripped steadily down Shadow Milk’s cock, coated his balls, soaking the ivory silk beneath them.
Shadow Milk’s head was thrown back, throat bared, fangs glinting as he panted. Every brutal drop of Truthless’ hips tore another wrecked sound from him—groans, growls, broken curses. His grip on the avian’s hips turned guiding rather than restraining, lifting and slamming Truthless down whenever the ancient’s thighs faltered.
Truthless leaned forward, breath hitching, and fisted both hands into that wild black and blue hair. He yanked hard, forcing Shadow Milk’s head to the side, and the jester moaned outright, hips jerking up to meet the next thrust with a force that made Truthless cry out.
“Yes—yes—like that—” Shadow Milk hissed. The eyes still open in his hair were trained on the cookie before him, pupils flickering into hearts. “What a—ahh, good birdy—”
Truthless rode him faster, chasing the heat coiled tight in his belly, chasing the edge that was finally, finally within reach. Every yank on Shadow Milk’s hair earned him another desperate sound, another sharp upward snap of hips that drove the jester’s cock impossibly deeper.
In what felt like no time at all, the rhythm shattered.
Shadow Milk’s hips snapped upward one final time, hard and uncontrolled, burying himself to the root. A guttural groan tore from his throat as he came, thick pulses flooding Truthless’ tight heat. His claws dug deep into the avian’s hips, pricking dough, forcing Recluse down and holding him there while his cock throbbed and spilled inside.
Truthless let out a pleased warble and ground down in slow, deliberate circles, milking every last drop. His walls fluttered around the pulsing length, drawing out the jester’s release until Shadow Milk shuddered beneath him. Slick and cream mixed, dripping down the ancient's thighs, soaking the ivory silk further.
The eyes in Shadow Milk’s hair had gone unfocused, several half-lidded in dazed pleasure, pupils flickering heart-shaped before fading back to blown circles. His chest heaved beneath Truthless’ palms, fangs glinting with every ragged exhale.
Finally, the claws on Recluse’s hips loosened. The beast’s fingers slid weakly along sweat-damp dough as he took a deep, shaking breath, then another, sweat tracing pale paths down his forehead and temples. His head lolled back against the silk wall lazily.
Truthless stayed seated, impaled and full, wings half-spread and trembling. He could feel every faint twitch of Shadow Milk inside him, every slowing pulse, and the knowledge sent a warm, possessive trill through his chest.
Shadow Milk panted, eyes fluttering as he tried to focus on the avian above him. It was the most overworked he had been in centuries, and the thought almost drew a weak laugh from his throat. Almost. Instead he only managed a low, exhausted groan, one hand lifting just far enough to brush a stray golden curl from Truthless’ damp forehead.
Shadow Milk’s moment of reprieve lasted only seconds. A sudden gasp tore from his throat as Truthless shifted, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that dragged the jester’s spent cock through oversensitive walls. The avian didn’t stop there. He lifted himself on trembling thighs and dropped again, taking Shadow Milk deep in one slick slide. Then again. And again. The rhythm started uneven but quickly built, frantic and greedy, as if the heat in Truthless’ core had only flared hotter from being filled.
Shadow Milk swore loudly, the curse ragged and half-laughing, head pushing further back into the silk. “Fuck—Nilla wait, give me a-ahh—”
Truthless didn’t. He leaned forward, folding both pairs of wings tight against his body, and buried his face in the curve of Shadow Milk’s neck. A low, pleased coo vibrated against warm dough as he bounced harder, thighs burning, slick and cream easing the way. Each downward drop drew a wet sound from where they joined, obscene and loud.
The beast’s hands flew back to Recluse’s hips, claws pricking dough again, but there was no real force behind them now—only a desperate attempt to hold on. Shadow Milk moaned, long and wrecked, as Truthless’ lips brushed the spot just below his ear. Every bounce sent the avian’s breath hot against his throat, every moan vibrating straight through powdered dough.
Truthless was loud—shamelessly, beautifully loud. Broken cries spilled from him with every thrust, muffled against Shadow Milk’s neck, turning into open-mouthed kisses and needy whimpers that sank into dough. The vibrations hummed through the jester’s entire frame, drawing helpless shivers even as exhaustion tugged at his limbs.
Shadow Milk couldn’t help but relish in it. The avian’s voice against his throat, the frantic rhythm of hips, the way Truthless’ walls still fluttered greedily around his softening cock, trying to coax it back to full hardness—it was overwhelming in the best way.
His head lolled to the side, giving Truthless more access, more dough to mouth at. One hand slid up the avian’s sweat-slick back, claws threading gently through the base of trembling feathers. “Greedy,” he rasped again, but there was no real complaint in it. Only wonder, and the slow, inevitable stir of renewed heat low in his belly.
Truthless answered with another deep drop and a louder moan, teeth grazing the jester’s pulse point, wings fluttering wildly with every bounce.
Shadow Milk was thrown over the edge again.
The second climax hit him harder than the first, a sudden, blinding rush that tore a strangled groan from his throat. His hips jerked upward, cock pulsing deep inside Truthless as fresh cream flooded the avian’s already soaked heat. The sensation dragged a full-body shudder from him, claws flexing uselessly against Truthless’ hips.
It took every last scrap of strength he had left to move. One trembling hand released its grip on the avian’s waist and shot upward, sinking deep into damp golden locks. Shadow Milk fisted the curls tight and yanked, sharp and commanding. Truthless’ rhythm faltered with a startled cry, hips stuttering to a stop mid-drop. Before the avian could recover, Shadow Milk pulled again, forcing Truthless’ head back, his body arching until his wings hit the wall of the nest.
Truthless gasped, eyes wide and glassy, wings flaring in surprise against the curved pillows. The sudden shift in angle dragged Shadow Milk’s cock along new places inside him, drawing a broken chirp from the avian’s throat.
The beast growled as he pushed himself up and over Truthless, settling between the avian’s thighs, weight braced on one hand. The movement shifted his cock deeper, eliciting twin groans as cum and slick squelched audibly where they joined.
His hand left Truthless’ hair, claws dragging slowly down sweat-damp dough until it hovered just above where they were connected. Shadow Milk paused there, breath ragged, staring down at the lewd sight beneath him.
Truthless’ cunt was stretched wide around his thick length, flushed dark and glistening. Thick rivulets of cum and slick leaked steadily from the seal of their bodies, dripping down tanned dough, pooling on the ruined ivory silk below. Every faint twitch of Truthless’ walls pushed more out, obscene and beautiful.
The sight punched the air from Shadow Milk’s lungs. His cock gave an interested throb inside the avian, and Truthless whimpered, thighs trembling around his hips. It almost—almost—sent him over the edge again.
Shadow Milk knew he should stay buried inside Truthless, let the avian’s heat pull him under again, but some stubborn instinct clawed at him. He shifted his hips back, starting to pull out despite the way his body screamed against it. The drag was immediate agony and ecstasy in equal measure, oversensitive nerves firing as Truthless’ walls clung desperately to his length.
Recluse broke into a shattered sob beneath him, wings fluttering weakly against the pillows. The sound punched straight through Shadow Milk’s chest, twisting something possessive and aching there. He wanted to thrust back in, to silence that cry with his cock, to give Truthless whatever he begged for until they both shattered. But he didn’t. He kept withdrawing, slow and deliberate, hissing through clenched fangs as the cum-slicked drag pulled a full-body shudder from him.
It didn’t take long. The head of his cock slipped free with a wet pop, leaving Truthless empty and clenching around nothing. The avian whined, tears spilling freely down his flushed cheeks now, tracing pale paths over tanned dough. “Mate—why, please—need you, please…”
The plea cracked in the middle, Truthless’ voice raw and trembling, his hands scrabbling weakly at Shadow Milk’s arms as if to pull him back down. His wings trembled, secondaries flapping in agitation, and fresh tears welled up, spilling over when he blinked. The sight of him so undone, so desperate, made Shadow Milk’s throat tighten, a growl rumbling low in his chest that was more frustration with himself than anything else.
He huffed, forcing his gaze away from Truthless’ tear-stained face. His eyes dropped lower, fixing on the avian’s cunt, and the breath caught in his throat.
It was a mess. Recluse’s hole gaped slightly from the stretch, flushed dark and swollen, glistening with their combined slick. Thick drops of Shadow Milk’s cream leaked steadily from the ruined entrance, mixed with Truthless’ own arousal, dripping down tanned thighs and pooling in the nest below. Every faint clench of those walls pushed more out, obscene and hypnotic—
Fuck. It was hot. Incredibly, distractingly hot.
Shadow Milk’s claws twitched at his sides. He dragged them down Truthless’ belly, slow and deliberate, until they hovered over that dripping slit. The avian whimpered at the proximity, hips twitching upward instinctively, seeking contact. Shadow Milk ignored the plea for a moment longer, watching another bead of cum leak free, then—finally—he moved.
One claw grazed Truthless’ clit, feather-light and teasing, earning a warbled moan that vibrated through the nest. Truthless arched, thighs trembling around Shadow Milk’s hips, but the beast didn’t linger there. Instead, he scooped up a thick glob of the cum-slick mixture on his fingers, the warmth of it coating his claws, and pressed them back toward the avian’s entrance.
Recluse’s hole sucked them in greedily, walls fluttering around the intrusion as if starved. Shadow Milk pushed deeper, two fingers curling inside, spreading the mess further, feeling the way Truthless clenched and pulled him in like he belonged there. The ancient gasped, head tipping back against the pillows, fresh tears spilling as his body betrayed him with another desperate clench.
“Mate…” Truthless breathed, voice wrecked and pleading, hips rolling weakly against the fingers filling him.
The jester watched, mesmerized, as his fingers disappeared knuckle-deep into that slick heat. He could feel the remnants of his own release coating his dough, mixed with Truthless’ wetness, the lewd squelch of it echoing loudly. Truthless’ walls rippled around him, trying to keep him there, and Shadow Milk crooked his fingers deliberately, brushing that sensitive spot inside until the avian cried out, thighs clamping tight.
He withdrew slowly, only to scoop more of the leaking cream and push it back in, repeating the motion patiently. Each thrust of his fingers drew another broken sound from Truthless—whimpers turning to chirps, sobs hitching into moans. The avian’s hands fisted in the silk sheets, sharp nails tearing small rips in the fabric, his entire body trembling under the assault.
Shadow Milk’s cock twitched against Truthless’ thigh, already stirring again despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. He couldn’t look away from the sight: his fingers plunging into that ruined hole, pushing his cum deeper, watching it leak out around them only to be shoved back in. Truthless was dazzling like this—tears streaking his face, wings splayed wide and quivering, cunt clenching greedily around every intrusion.
“Please,” Recluse whispered again, voice cracking on the word. His heterochromatic eyes locked onto Shadow Milk’s, wide and glassy with need. “Mate… don’t stop…”
Shadow Milk’s breath hitched. He added a third finger, stretching Truthless wider, curling them deep until the avian arched off the nest with a sharp cry. The jester leaned down, fangs grazing the curve of Truthless’ throat, tasting salt from the tears there. “What a pretty birdy… I’ll give you what you want.”
Truthless sobbed, hips bucking into the fingers, walls fluttering wildly. More cum leaked free, only for Shadow Milk to push it back in with a deliberate thrust, mesmerized by the way Truthless’ body accepted it all, greedy and perfect and his. The nest was soaked, feathers scattered everywhere like dark confetti.
He worked his fingers faster, thumb finally circling Truthless’ clit in rough, insistent strokes. The avian keened, wings snapping wide, one hand flying up to grip Shadow Milk’s shoulder, nails digging in deep. “Mate—close, please—”
Shadow Milk growled against his neck, fangs pressing just hard enough to dimple dough. “Cum for me, little thief. Show me how much you need it.”
Truthless shattered with a broken warble, walls clamping down on the fingers, fresh slick gushing around them. His body arched off the nest, tears streaming freely now, wings shuddering violently as the climax ripped through him. Shadow Milk didn’t stop, thrusting through the spasms, pushing more of his cum deeper until Recluse collapsed back, panting and spent, thighs trembling around the jester’s wrist.
Only then did Shadow Milk withdraw his fingers, slick and coated, bringing them to his mouth to taste their combined mess. A sweet, blueberry-vanilla mix bloomed on the beast’s forked tongue, and Shadow Milk hummed at the taste, content. Truthless whimpered at the sight, eyes half-lidded and hazy, body still twitching with aftershocks.
The beast hovered over him, cock hard again and throbbing against Truthless’ thigh, the sight of the avian undone beneath him fueling something primal and unyielding. He shifted forward, knees pressing Truthless’ thighs wider, and lined himself up again. The blunt head of his cock nudged against that swollen, dripping entrance—still fluttering from the last climax, still leaking his cream in slow, obscene pulses. Truthless felt the pressure and whined immediately, hips rolling down in a desperate attempt to take him back.
Shadow Milk’s claws sank into the soft dough of the avian’s thighs, sharp enough that tiny beads of bright red jam welled up beneath the points. He held Truthless still and pushed forward.
Slowly. Too slowly.
The drag was almost cruel. Truthless’ walls parted around him again, inch by thick inch, sucking him in with greedy, wet heat. Shadow Milk watched every moment of it: the way the flushed rim stretched wide, the way the mess of cum and slick coated his length as he disappeared inside, the way Truthless’ cunt sealed tight around him the instant he was fully seated. Plugged again. Full again.
Recluse sobbed and tried to rock into the sensation, but the claws in his thighs kept him motionless, forced him to feel every throb of Shadow Milk’s cock nestled deep. His wings shuddered against the ruined silk, secondaries fluttering against his damp hair.
Shadow Milk wanted to stay there. Wanted to savor the way Truthless’ breath hitched and broke, wanted to watch those two-toned eyes flood with fresh tears while the avian realized he wasn’t going to move yet. He wanted him begging—the beautiful, shattered cascade of it—until Truthless’ voice gave out entirely.
But patience had never been one of his virtues.
His jaw clenched, fangs glinting, and he drew back—slow again, just far enough that Truthless felt the loss—before he slammed forward in one brutal thrust.
The impact punched a sharp cry from Recluse’s throat, wings flaring wide, body arching off the nest. Shadow Milk didn’t give him time to recover. He pulled out and rammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust drove the air from Truthless’ lungs, drove fresh cream out around his cock in wet pulses, drove broken chirps and sobs from the avian’s open mouth.
The ancient’s hands scrabbled for purchase, claws raking down Shadow Milk’s back, catching in light blue dough hard enough to leave welting marks. His thighs shook around the jester’s hips, jam still beading where claws held him open. The nest rocked beneath them, pillow walls trembling with every slam of dough on dough.
Shadow Milk leaned down, fangs grazing the shell of Truthless’ ear. “There we go,” he growled, voice ragged, hips snapping forward again. “Right back where you belong, birdy. Stuffed full of me.”