fixated-cookies

[fixated-cookies]

Matchmaker? (part two)

part two due to popular demand part one here

Yandere!shadow milk cookie & Yandere!pure vanila cookie x Matchmaker!Reader SMUT INVOLVES YANDERE THEMES warnings- smut, squirting, dubcon?, piv penetration, oral (receiving)

It had been three days since that night.

Three days since the door closed behind you, since Pure Vanilla kissed you like a dying man and Shadow Milk whispered like a curse at your throat. Three days since the room tilted sideways and you forgot how to breathe.

And now… everything was quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

They hadn’t cornered you since. No dramatic declarations. No smirking threats. No confessions.

Just… presence.

They were always there.

When you slipped into the gardens to “get some air,” Pure Vanilla was already seated beneath the wisteria tree, reading, a second cushion prepared just beside him.

When you tried to busy yourself in the kitchens, Shadow Milk Cookie had strolled in, twirling your favorite spoon between his fingers with a smirk: “Oh? Cooking for your lovers?”

You choked on air. “I—I’m not—!”

“Not what?” he asked sweetly. “Not ours yet?”

You fled before he could follow up.

And now, curled in the far corner of the library with a book you weren’t reading, you were trying very hard not to overthink.

Maybe you had misunderstood. Maybe that night had just been… an intense moment. A misunderstanding. A dream?

You buried your face in your hands and groaned softly.

“Everything alright, little one?”

You startled. Looked up.

Pure Vanilla stood there with his hands gently clasped, robes swaying softly around him, expression full of calm concern. His eyes were so soft you could melt into them.

“O-Oh! I’m okay!” you chirped too fast. “Just reading! Just relaxing! Just—ah, being alive! As one does!”

He blinked slowly. “You’re trembling.”

You looked down. Your hands were shaking.

“Oh. Must be the tea. I had… four cups?”

A pause. Then a sigh.

He stepped forward and reached down—gracefully, confidently—and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. Your breath caught.

“There,” he murmured, voice like silk. “You had sugar on your lips.”

You turned bright red.

“A-Ahaha—thank you—I didn’t notice—”

“You often don’t.”

You didn’t know what that meant, but before you could question it, his hand slid away.

“I’ll be in the courtyard if you’d like company,” he added softly. “Shadow Milk is there too.”

Of course he was.

You nodded quickly, heart hammering, and watched him go.

You told yourself not to follow.

You followed.

The courtyard was bathed in amber sunlight, warm and dreamy. Shadow Milk Cookie was draped lazily over the marble edge of the fountain, boots up, arms stretched behind his head like he owned the sky. His mismatched eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Look what the sugar wind blew in.”

“I was just walking,” you said defensively, even as Pure Vanilla greeted you with a hand outstretched, leading you to sit between them on the bench.

The silence was… odd.

Warm, but taut.

You peeked up at them both.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze kept drifting toward you, unreadable but constant.

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned in until his hair brushed your shoulder. “No poems for us today?” he teased. “No honeyed attempts at playing Cupid?”

You shrank a little. “I—I haven’t really felt like matchmaking lately…”

“Oh?” His grin widened. “Why’s that, pet? Realizing your aim was off?”

You flushed. “No! I mean—maybe! I mean—I just—it’s been a weird few days, okay?”

They said nothing.

Just watched you.

And suddenly you became very aware of how close they were. How Shadow Milk’s knee pressed into yours, and how Pure Vanilla’s hand rested on the bench behind your back, thumb brushing your shoulder every so often like it belonged there.

You swallowed.

“I think I’m just… confused,” you said quietly, eyes down. “I thought I understood things. But maybe I didn’t.”

Shadow Milk leaned in, lips at your ear. “You didn’t.”

You shivered.

Pure Vanilla’s voice was soft, but firm. “You will.”

Your breath caught.

The moment lingered—three hearts in the golden hush—and you had the sudden, terrifying feeling that you were standing on the edge of something vast and dark and beautiful. Something you couldn't undo.

The sun had long dipped below the castle windows when you found yourself here—somehow, again—with them.

It wasn’t planned. Not formally. You hadn’t been summoned. But when you passed by the small candle-lit parlor and saw the door cracked open, and Pure Vanilla’s warm voice drifted out alongside Shadow Milk’s amused chuckle, your feet simply… stopped.

Your heart beat too fast.

They were waiting.

And worst of all?

Some tiny, trembling part of you didn’t want to undo it.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

You’d wandered back to your room like a ghost, your skin tingling, ears still echoing with their voices. You’d tried to busy yourself. Tried to read. To wash. To breathe.

But your mind kept drifting.

To Pure Vanilla’s fingers on your cheek. To Shadow Milk’s shadow-warm laughter. To the way they looked at you—like you were already theirs. Like you had been for a very long time.

You told yourself not to go back.

You told yourself you needed space. Clarity.

But your feet disobeyed.

You walked without knowing where you were headed—down familiar halls, past flickering sconces, heart knocking hard against your ribs. You paused at the door, fingers trembling just above the handle.

There was no note. No invitation.

But it was open.

A crack.

An invitation in silence.

You stepped in before you could convince yourself otherwise.

The room was quiet, cozy. A low fire. Pillows arranged across a velvet couch. A tray of fruit and honeyed bread untouched on the table. Shadow Milk Cookie lay sprawled out like a cat in the corner cushions, one leg crossed, fingers idly twirling the stem of a wine glass. Pure Vanilla sat with his hands folded, gazing into the fire like he’d been meditating.

They both looked up when you entered.

And smiled.

“Evening, little one,” Pure Vanilla said gently, patting the seat beside him.

“Didn’t expect you,” Shadow Milk hummed. “Didn’t not expect you, either.”

“I—I was just walking by…” you mumbled, clutching your sleeves. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, but you’re not intruding.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was low, rich. “We were just talking about you.”

That did not help.

You awkwardly perched beside him, trying not to notice how Shadow Milk sat up a little straighter, his eyes locked onto you like a wolf eyeing dessert.

“Me?” you squeaked.

“Mhm.” Shadow Milk offered a crooked smile. “Our darling little matchmaker who seems to have given up her mission.”

Your cheeks burned.

“I just… figured I’d let things happen naturally,” you mumbled. “I was probably overstepping before.”

“Oh, but you were so adorable while doing it,” he purred, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee. “Playing Cupid. Thinking we were tangled up in each other. How precious.”

You shrank.

Pure Vanilla’s hand settled on your lower back. His thumb rubbed slow, grounding circles.

“You still believe that?” he asked softly. “That we’re meant for one another?”

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Shadow Milk leaned closer. “Then perhaps it’s time we clarify.”

You blinked. “Clarify what?”

Neither of them answered right away. Instead, Pure Vanilla gently took your hand—warm, soft, reverent—and brought it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, slow and careful, eyes never leaving yours.

Your heart stuttered.

“I…” you started, unsure what you were about to say.

Shadow Milk shifted in beside you now, trapping you between them. His fingers played with a strand of your hair, twirling it lazily.

“You smell nervous,” he teased, voice dark and low.

“I’m not—!” you squeaked, but your voice betrayed you.

He laughed. “Liar.”

Then his hand trailed under your chin, tilting your face toward him—so close you could see the flicker of shadows in his eyes.

“You’re blushing,” Pure Vanilla murmured, still holding your hand.

“I’m not—!!” You tried to pull away, but neither held you down. They didn’t need to.

They had you already.

Shadow Milk leaned in and kissed your cheek. Slowly. Softly. His lips lingered just a moment too long.

You stopped breathing.

Then Pure Vanilla kissed your other cheek. Delicate. Holy. Like a blessing meant only for you.

And you melted between them.

“I—what is this—” your voice was barely a breath.

“A beginning,” Pure Vanilla said simply.

“Our beginning,” Shadow Milk added, brushing his nose along your jaw, smug and lazy. “You thought you were orchestrating a romance…”

“…But you were the one being pursued all along,” Pure Vanilla finished.

You trembled, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“W-Why didn’t you say something before?”

Shadow Milk laughed, low and rich. “We did. You were just too busy playing matchmaker to notice.”

You wanted to argue—but then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was hot and slow and possessive. His hand cupped your cheek as his thumb pressed just under your eye. Your gasp disappeared into him.

When he pulled away, you were breathless—too stunned to move—and then Pure Vanilla’s lips took his place.

He was softer. Slower. He kissed you like a lullaby, like you were made of spun sugar and he couldn’t bear to shatter you. But underneath that gentleness was something hungry. Something claiming.

By the time they pulled back, you were dazed. Drenched in warmth. Knees weak and body trembling.

You looked between them, mouth open, voice shaking: “You… you kissed me…”

Shadow Milk’s grin curled sharp and devilish. “She’s catching on.”

Pure Vanilla just smiled, smoothing a hand over your thigh like it had always belonged there. “You still think we’re in love with each other?”

“…N-No.”

“Good,” they said together.

And you didn’t notice it then—but your matchmaking days were already over.

The room was quiet now.

Not the cozy parlor from before, no—this was deeper inside the castle. Warmer. Dimmer. Lit with low flames and sweet-scented incense curling through the air like silken fog.

You weren’t sure how you got here.

One moment, you were still dazed from their kisses. The next… you were walking. Guided gently by Pure Vanilla’s hand, Shadow Milk close behind you, his palm pressed to your lower back.

You told yourself you could leave. That they hadn’t forced you.

But the door shut behind you, and neither of them asked for permission.

They didn’t need to.

Because your legs didn’t turn around.

The chamber was rich and low-lit, velvet curtains drawn, shadows draped like lovers across the walls. You stood there awkwardly, still trying to catch your breath.

Shadow Milk’s voice was the first to break the silence.

“Well?” he drawled. “Will you pretend again, pet? Or do we finally have your attention?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it again.

Because you didn’t know what to say.

Because your heart was pounding and your thighs were pressed too tight and you were suddenly so aware of your clothes. Of the heat beneath them.

Of the way Pure Vanilla was watching you like he already knew what you'd look like underneath.

He stepped closer, slow and calm, reaching for your hand again.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Please.”

You let him pull you forward.

You didn’t protest when Shadow Milk came to your other side, twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers, eyes half-lidded and dangerous.

“You’re too dressed,” he murmured. “That won’t do.”

You squeaked. “W-What?!”

“You didn’t think we’d worship you through your clothes, did you?” Shadow Milk purred, leaning close enough for his lips to graze your ear. “Mm… no, little dove. If you’re going to be the center of our world, we want to see you. All of you.”

Your breath caught as Pure Vanilla’s hand rose to your collar.

“I won’t tear anything,” he promised gently. “I’ll go slow.”

He did.

His fingers moved with holy reverence, undoing your fastenings one by one. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His knuckles brushed your throat, your collarbone, your chest—and your skin prickled with every ghost of contact.

Behind you, Shadow Milk dragged his hands down your arms, pushing your sleeves off your shoulders with a slow exhale. “Shivering already… are you cold, or just excited?” he teased.

You couldn’t answer.

Your gown slipped down your arms. Pure Vanilla helped it off your body like unwrapping a ribboned gift, folding it neatly aside—too neat, like it was a ritual.

Left in your shift, you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

But they weren’t having that.

Shadow Milk clicked his tongue. “No hiding.”

Pure Vanilla’s fingers slid beneath the hem of your shift. “Let us show you,” he whispered.

And before you could respond, they lifted it off—together. Two pairs of hands, smooth and deliberate, dragging the sheer fabric over your hips, your chest, your head. Exposing you inch by inch. Not with violence. With devotion.

You gasped softly, arms twitching to cover yourself again.

But then Shadow Milk was behind you, his bare hand sliding up your waist, hot and firm.

And Pure Vanilla… was kneeling in front of you now, eyes level with your thighs, his gaze reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed.

“And finally ours,” Shadow Milk whispered into your hair.

They guided you to the bed, laying you across the plush sheets like something sacred.

Shadow Milk’s mouth was everywhere first—neck, shoulders, chest—pressing kisses that burned. His hands squeezed your thighs open like he had every right.

Pure Vanilla took your hand and kissed each fingertip, murmuring low praises between each one.

“So patient,” he said softly. “So good for us.”

You whimpered. “I—I don’t know what to do—”

Shadow Milk’s laugh rumbled against your skin. “Don’t worry, pet. You just lay there and learn.”

He dipped down.

And then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, hips jerking—but Pure Vanilla was already there, soothing your trembling body with steady hands, whispering, “Breathe. Breathe, darling. Let him love you.”

And love you, he did.

His tongue was merciless—flicking, curling, tasting every inch. Shadow Milk moaned like he was the one being ruined. “You’re so sweet, sweetheart,” he crooned. “No wonder we fought so hard to have you.”

You were already falling apart—and they hadn’t even fucked you yet.

You were already soaked.

Breathless, body humming, lips kissed swollen, thighs sticky with arousal from Shadow Milk’s relentless mouth. Your hands had curled tight into the sheets, and your voice—shaky and sweet—had been reduced to soft gasps and whimpers.

But they weren’t done.

Not even close.

“She's ready,” Shadow Milk murmured, licking his lips, gaze still fixed between your legs. “She wants it now.”

You let out a soft noise—half denial, half plea.

“Oh?” Pure Vanilla’s voice was calm, but cool. “You seem awfully eager.”

Shadow Milk turned his head, eyes glinting. “Jealous, your Grace?”

“I’m simply observing,” Pure Vanilla replied smoothly, brushing his thumb over your trembling stomach. “You’re always so quick to rush. She deserves more than that.”

“I took my time,” Shadow Milk huffed, crossing his arms like an offended cat. “I prepped her. I primed her.”

You blinked, dazed, still halfway to heaven. “W-Wait—what are you—”

“She needs to be entered slowly,” Pure Vanilla said, voice gentle as his hand slid lower. “She’s sensitive.”

“I know she’s sensitive,” Shadow Milk snapped, eyes narrowing. “I’ve tasted how sensitive. Which is exactly why I should go first.”

“She trusts me.”

“She likes it rough.”

“She needs to be held.”

“She needs to be wrecked.”

You stared at them, wide-eyed, caught between two ancient cookies arguing over your body like it was a priceless treasure at auction.

“…Are you two seriously fighting over this right now?” you asked, voice small.

They both turned to you—then back to each other.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Shadow Milk offered with a smirk.

“This is not a game,” Pure Vanilla said sternly. “This is our beloved’s first time.”

“…I call best of three.”

“You are insufferable.”

And then, somehow, in the candlelit glow of the most erotic moment of your entire life, you watched an ancient priest and a half-mad jester play a round of silent, deadly intense rock-paper-scissors over who got to fuck you first.

Shadow Milk won.

He grinned like the devil.

“Strip,” he said.

You blinked. “I’m already—”

“Him,” he clarified, jerking a thumb toward Pure Vanilla.

“Absolutely not,” Pure Vanilla replied calmly, undoing his robe anyway.

It didn’t matter who won.

Because soon, Shadow Milk Cookie was guiding you onto his lap, chest to chest, eyes glowing with hungry delight. You hovered above him, body slick and trembling, thighs spread wide with Pure Vanilla’s hands bracing your hips from behind.

“Deep breath, sweetheart,” Shadow Milk purred. “We’ll take good care of you.”

And then he slid in.

Slow.

Thick.

Deep.

You cried out, full in an instant, stretched so wide your eyes rolled.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he moaned, hands digging into your waist. “So tight. So warm. You were made for this—made for us.”

Pure Vanilla kissed your shoulder. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well.”

You clung to Shadow Milk’s shoulders, sobbing softly as he rocked up into you, gentle at first—but only just.

“Move,” he growled.

And Pure Vanilla did—bracing your hips, helping you ride him.

You didn’t stand a chance.

They worshipped you. Touched you like a prayer. Praised you with every breath. Every time your voice cracked, Shadow Milk’s grin deepened. Every time your body jolted, Pure Vanilla kissed your hair and whispered, “That’s it, darling. That’s it.”

When you came, it was with a scream—loud and raw and shattering.

And Shadow Milk came with a curse and a growl, filling you so deep you felt it in your ribs.

You collapsed against him—but they weren’t done.

Because Pure Vanilla was already lifting you up. Not even turning you around. Lowering you onto his lap now.

And his voice, so calm before, now trembled with hunger:

“My turn.”

Wincing, you were shaking.

Even now, even after everything—your body ruined and stretched and still clenching from Shadow Milk’s release—you were shaking.

Because now it was Pure Vanilla behind you.

You were in his lap, thighs spread wide, back pressed to his chest, his arms holding you so tightly, so tenderly, it almost didn’t feel real. His voice was at your ear, calm and warm and low, and it made your skin prickle worse than any teasing Shadow Milk had ever done.

You felt his cock—heavy, thick, achingly hard—pressed against the slick mess between your legs.

And he hadn’t moved yet.

He was just holding you there.

Letting you feel it.

Letting you sit there and realize what was about to happen.

'They’re going to ruin me.'

The thought came unbidden, but it was true. They already had.

'I should stop this.' 'I should say something.' 'I should—'

His lips brushed your ear.

“You’re quiet,” he whispered.

You couldn’t answer. You were panting softly, chest rising and falling, your hands shaking where they rested on your thighs.

His hands covered yours.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked.

You opened your mouth.

You should’ve said yes.

Instead, you whimpered, “I don’t know…”

He kissed your shoulder, so softly it almost didn’t register. His arms wrapped around your middle, palms warm against your trembling stomach.

“Then let me help you understand.”

And with that—

He pressed in.

You arched with a gasp, the stretch too much too soon—but he was slow. So slow. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he rushed. His cock pushed into you inch by inch, thick and pulsing, your body still sensitive and aching but so ready, so desperate it made you want to sob.

You clutched at his arms. “P-Pure Vanilla—”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot. You’re doing so well.”

You couldn’t stop shaking. Your thighs trembled as you tried to sit up, to ease the pressure, but he just pulled you back tighter against his chest.

“Don’t run,” he murmured. “Just feel me.”

His hips rolled up into you, slow and deliberate, burying himself all the way to the hilt.

You cried out—loud and high, your back arching helplessly against him.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he said against your neck. “Of being inside you like this. Holding you. Filling you.”

You whimpered, grinding down unconsciously. “It’s too much—”

“But you’re taking it,” he breathed. “So beautifully.”

His hand slid lower—brushed your clit. You jolted.

“Still so sensitive,” he whispered.

“I c-can’t—”

“You can. You are.”

Your thoughts were a blur now.

'He’s so deep.' 'He’s shaking too.' 'He’s not calm. He’s not soft. He’s—'

He bit your shoulder.

Not hard. But enough to make you freeze.

“You don’t even realize what you do to us,” he said, voice cracked now. “You walk into our lives. You smile. You try to pair us off like characters in one of your silly stories. And all the while, you’re the one we want.”

Your breath hitched.

'I didn’t know, I didn’t—'

“You never asked,” he said, as if he heard you. “You never looked. But we were always there. Watching. Wanting. Waiting.”

His pace quickened, grinding you down onto his cock, your cunt clenching again, your body too weak to resist it anymore.

“Tell me you feel it,” he said. “Tell me you know it now.”

You sobbed. “I do—I do—I feel everything—”

He moaned, soft and broken, fucking up into you with so much need it nearly undid you again.

“And you’ll remember this,” he whispered, lips pressed to your ear. “Every time you close your legs, every time you think about running—you’ll remember this stretch. This fullness.”

Your head lolled forward, chest heaving as Pure Vanilla rutted up into you, slow but relentless, his cock hitting so deep it made your toes curl.

You could barely see past your tears. But when your blurry gaze landed on the edge of the bed—there he was.

Shadow Milk Cookie.

Lying on his side, one hand bracing his head, the other lazily dragging across his chest. Just watching you. Watching your mouth tremble. Watching the way your body jolted every time Pure Vanilla bottomed out.

He looked positively delighted.

“Well, well…” he murmured, voice syrup-slick. “You really are adorable like this, pet. All breathless and swollen and stuffed full of love.”

Your cheeks burned. You tried to look away.

But you couldn’t.

Because Pure Vanilla kept you there—his hand on your throat now, holding your head steady so you had to face Shadow Milk as he taunted you.

“Eyes on him,” Pure Vanilla whispered. “Let him see how good I’m making you feel.”

Your lips parted in a soft sob.

Shadow Milk’s grin widened.

“Aw, look at her,” he purred. “Getting fucked like a prayer and still so sweet. So polite. Aren’t you tired of being good, little matchmaker?”

You whimpered. He sat up slowly.

“You want to come again, don’t you?” he cooed, now kneeling in front of you. “I can see it in your face.”

You barely nodded.

He laughed, dark and low. “Of course you do. You poor thing.”

Then he dropped to his knees between your legs.

Your breath hitched. “W-What—?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, grinning up at you. “Just wanted a closer look.”

And then—

He dipped forward and licked you.

Right where you were stretched around Pure Vanilla’s cock. Right where you were leaking, throbbing, desperate.

You screamed.

“Sh-Shadow Milk—!!”

Pure Vanilla moaned against your neck. “Be still. Let him help.”

Shadow Milk groaned into your cunt, tongue curling under the slick ring where you were stuffed full, flicking and lapping with obscene, greedy hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to let cool air touch your soaking core. “You’re dripping down him. So fucking good like this. I can taste both of us.”

Your thighs trembled violently. You tried to twist away, overwhelmed—

But Pure Vanilla held your hips steady and thrust up—hard and deep, forcing your body forward into Shadow Milk’s mouth again.

You screamed again, higher, broken.

“Now, now,” Shadow Milk chuckled between licks. “Don’t be shy.”

He flicked your clit with his tongue and you jerked, nearly convulsing.

“Sh-Slow—can’t—”

“You can,” Pure Vanilla whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “You’re ours. You’ll take all of it.” You were shaking again.

Every part of your body felt raw—used and trembling and so close to breaking, but not allowed to fall. Not yet. Not while Pure Vanilla was still pulsing inside you. Not while Shadow Milk was still down between your thighs, mouthing off between licks like he wasn’t already drowning in your slick.

“Fuck, look at you,” he chuckled against your pussy, tongue flicking lazily at your entrance, lips brushing Pure Vanilla’s cock with every motion. “Mewling like a little whore. Bet you’d let the whole court watch if we asked.”

You gasped, blinking down at him through dazed, teary eyes. “S-Shadow Milk—”

“Oh, hush, sweetheart,” he purred. “Don’t act shy now. You’re already ruined. Might as well admit you love being our toy—”

“She is not a toy,” Pure Vanilla said, voice like ice.

Shadow Milk licked a fat, lazy stripe up your slit, eyes glittering as he stared up at you. “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

Your thighs trembled. “W-Wait—don’t f-fight—”

“Oh, we’re not fighting,” Shadow Milk said smugly. “He just hates that I make you scream louder—”

And that was when Pure Vanilla’s hand shot forward.

No warning. No patience. Just a sharp grip into Shadow Milk’s silky hair from behind—and shoved his mouth down.

Hard.

Directly onto your clit.

You shrieked.

Shadow Milk groaned—startled, then delighted—his mouth completely engulfing your swollen, overstimulated bud, tongue circling viciously now as Pure Vanilla held him there.

“Do your job,” Pure Vanilla growled above you, his thrusts never faltering, his cock grinding up into your most sensitive places. “Since you’re so eager to talk, let’s see how well you listen.”

You screamed.

Your back arched violently, hips jerking forward as Shadow Milk’s tongue flattened and sucked around your clit, loud and obscene, while Pure Vanilla rutted up into you from behind like he was claiming a throne.

“P-Please—!! I— I c-can’t—!!”

“You will,” Pure Vanilla said, voice shaking now, feral and low. “You will.”

Shadow Milk moaned into you like a man starved, hands sliding up to hold your thighs open wider. His lips sealed around your clit, tongue flicking and pressing while Pure Vanilla thrust deep one final time—

And you snapped.

Your vision went white.

Your scream was primal.

You squirted—hard—gushing helplessly, soaking Shadow Milk’s face, your thighs, Pure Vanilla’s lap. Your body jerked uncontrollably, mouth open in a silent cry as the orgasm tore through you like lightning.

And they just held you.

Shadow Milk licked through it—moaning, messy, like he was drinking in your soul.

Pure Vanilla wrapped both arms around your middle, cock twitching deep inside you, chest trembling as he whispered, “That’s it, darling. Let it go. All of it. Let us have it.”

You collapsed.

Ruined.

Wrecked.

Soaked and sobbing and twitching, unable to move.

And when Shadow Milk finally pulled back, face shiny with release and pride, he just grinned up at you.

“See?” he purred, licking your juices off his lips. “You’re ours. All over again.” ...

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

You just knew you were warm.

Heavy, fuzzy warmth that wrapped around you like the weight of velvet sheets, sunlight, and dream-thick honey. Your body ached in that syrupy, good way—every muscle soft, every inch of skin tingling with the memory of touch. Of teeth. Of love.

You blinked slowly.

The room was golden now. Lit by the earliest morning light bleeding through gauzy curtains. The sheets beneath you smelled like lavender and heat.

And you couldn’t move.

Not because you were restrained.

But because they were still holding you.

Pure Vanilla cradled your upper body against his chest, one arm tucked beneath your back, the other gently stroking through your hair. His robe had been draped over both of you like a blanket. His cheek rested against your forehead, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear.

Shadow Milk lay at your front, tangled around your legs like a sleepy jungle cat. His head rested on your thigh, one arm slung lazily across your waist, thumb absentmindedly tracing patterns into your belly.

You blinked again.

“…Morning,” you croaked, voice barely there.

Pure Vanilla smiled above you, humming softly. “Good morning, sweet one.”

Shadow Milk cracked an eye open and grinned. “Still alive? Miraculous.”

You flushed, turning your face into Pure Vanilla’s chest with a whimper.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled.

“Mm. Yes.” Shadow Milk stretched, unashamedly smug. “That tends to happen when you’re made a temple.”

“Shh,” Pure Vanilla murmured, kissing your temple. “Don’t tease her.”

“She likes it,” Shadow Milk purred. “Don’t you, pet?”

You didn’t answer.

Mostly because your thighs twitched just from remembering.

“I brought water,” Pure Vanilla said softly, reaching behind him for a small crystal goblet. He lifted it to your lips and tilted it carefully. “Small sips.”

You obeyed. It tasted sweet. Cold.

Then something soft brushed your lips.

You blinked.

Shadow Milk was holding out a plump grape between two fingers, smirking.

“Open wide,” he said.

You gave him a tired glare. “I’m not a baby.”

“You’re ours,” he countered. “Close enough.”

You huffed—but opened your mouth anyway. He popped the grape between your lips with a pleased hum and leaned forward to lick the juice that escaped.

Pure Vanilla chuckled softly, kissing your forehead. “You were perfect.”

“…You guys are insane,” you muttered, cheeks still flushed.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night,” Shadow Milk murmured.

“Or the four times you came,” Pure Vanilla added delicately.

You squeaked and buried your face again.

They both chuckled.

Eventually, you tried to move.

Tried to sit up.

Tried to leave.

Their arms did not loosen.

“Where are you going?” Pure Vanilla asked softly, chin still resting on your head.

“Nowhere,” you whispered, cheeks hot.

Shadow Milk yawned into your chest. “Good answer.”

Their hands tightened around you.

Possessive.

Gentle.

Unmovable.

That morning, they fed you.

They cleaned you.

They praised you until your skin prickled and you cried again—quiet little tears of overwhelm and softness.

They dressed you slowly, but never let go completely.

And later, when you finally, finally managed to ask, “Are we… really together now?”—

Pure Vanilla only smiled and pressed his forehead to yours.

And Shadow Milk whispered, “Oh, darling…”

“You were never not ours.” --- Ya'll i think i went overkill with this part two hahah i really wasnt planning on this being so long whoopsie

[fixated-cookies]

HELLO i wanted to tell you that ever since my partner sent me that one hollyberry scissoring fic of yours on a whim, i have been in shambles and is literally the reason why i got into cookie run like oh my fucking god my brain has been rewired and for the past weeks have been thinking of this women dear lord . OH MY GOD I WISH YOU HAD MORE STUFF ABOUT HER I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO BAD i am literally tweaking tf out and my gay ass NEEDS HER SO BAD 😭

THANK YOU SOOO MUCHH!!! im so glad people are liking the way i write the characters heheheh my hardwork is paying off!! I just recently moved into a new house so i've been busy lately but dont worry i'll defintly write more hollyberry content soon, she really needs more fancontent!!

[fixated-cookies]

I saw your animalistic beasts post a while back, and it got me thinking, what if the reader could make animal noises back in response, ex: puring, chirping, chittering, etc. Especially when being pleasure. Ps, I'm so sorry for sending this three times once in your messages and twice in your askbox. Not all at the same time. I'm not spamming you, that be rude. I've just sent it over time. It's also great that you're better.

im sorry im soooo late!! I hope you dont mind that i decided to make this a more seperate post and this time i featured all the released beast!!

Shadow Milk Cookie

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t realize at first what the noises meant.

The first time you chittered—a breathy, trembling sound buried in your throat while his fingers teased lazy circles along your stomach—he froze. His hand didn’t move, but his hair did. Those hidden, ghostly eyes beneath his jester locks flared open in shock, confusion, and then…

Elation.

“Oh? What’s this little melody?” he drawled, voice velvety with mischief. “Is that a purr I hear? Oh, darling, don’t tell me you're part feline—no, no, something softer. A vole? A baby fox? Mmm… No, you're mine. My little chimera~”

He lives for it. Absolutely adores coaxing those noises out of you. Your moans are delicious, yes, but your non-verbal, instinctive, animalistic noises? They’re better than any aria. He treats them like a personal reward, like proof that you’re descending into instinct—into his rhythm.

When you chirp as he thrusts in slowly from behind, he hums in response, almost mockingly, as if harmonizing with you. “That’s it, sing for me, little fledgling~”

If you purr when he touches your thighs or strokes your hair, he will not let you go. You’ve been activated. You are now curled in his lap for the next few hours while he teases, pets, and nuzzles into your shoulder like a wolf licking a trembling rabbit.

And god forbid you ever make a high-pitched chittering sound when you’re overwhelmed, like a prey animal trying to soothe itself—

“Oh, my sweet, do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he pants, fangs grazing your ear. “Making sounds like that, twitching like you want to bolt... And yet you stay. Mmn—you're begging to be devoured~”

It makes his possessiveness so much worse. If you make noises that sound too good? He’ll snarl. Growl. Bite. He can’t help it. He needs to mark you, bury himself deep, drown in the helpless, primal way your body responds to his.

“You’re not leaving this bed,” he murmurs, licking the shell of your ear. “Not until I hear that pretty little cry again. You know the one. The one that makes my heart stop~”

And the next time he hears it?

He won’t stop until you’re a mewling mess.

Burning spice

He notices it the first time when he barely brushes his palm down your inner thigh and you let out a soft, trembling chirr. Not a word. Not even a moan.

A noise.

Instinctive. Primal. Involuntary.

It stuns him.

He stiffens above you, hand halting where it had begun to travel down your side. His eyes narrow. He hears it again—softer this time, like a purr, shaky and uncertain in your throat.

"That sound..." he mutters lowly, his tone laced with something torn between fascination and irritation. "Why do you sound like that?"

You blink up at him—innocent, breathless. “I didn’t mean to—”

"Do it again."

His voice is sharp, commanding. Not a suggestion. A demand.

He presses his palm over your belly, just barely grazing where heat coils inside you, and waits.

Another chitter slips out. You try to hide it—but it’s too late.

He growls.

Not loud. Not angry.

Possessive.

"You’re not even trying to hide how far gone you are," he mutters. "You're trembling like prey. Purring like something meant to be taken."

The noises haunt him. He hears them echo in his ears even after you’ve fallen asleep—soft hiccuping whines and throaty mewls that get higher and faster the more he ruts into you. They drive him mad because they aren’t words. They're instincts. Instincts that make you feel alive. That remind him he's alive, even if he hates that truth.

When you chirp in surprise, he laughs—not from joy, but that slow, dangerous mirth that means you’re in trouble.

“Oh. So that’s the noise you make when I go deep.”

From that point on, he actively chases the sounds. Forces them out of you. He’ll pin your hands, hold your legs open, mark your skin with sharp kisses and snarled praise until you’re squirming and squeaking in desperation. He’ll go slow—painfully slow—just to hear what you’ll do next.

“You think I can’t tell what that sound means?” he whispers harshly. “That needy little chirp? It means you want this. You need me. You were made to sound like that under me.”

And if you ever try to hold it in?

Oh, no.

He’ll ruin you.

He’ll make it his mission to hear that exact whimper, mewl, purr, again and again until it breaks you open like a crushed blossom in the fire.

"Let go," he rasps. "Be what you are. Mine."

Mystic flour

Soft purring. Chirping. Chittering. Little sounds that escape you when the pleasure gets too much...

Mystic Flour Cookie doesn’t flinch. She never does. But when the first noise slips past your lips—a faint chirp, almost too quiet to register—her eyes open just slightly. Pale and unreadable, they hold no judgment, no emotion. Only silence. She watches you as if deciphering a riddle written in instinct. Her hand, cold and deliberate, doesn’t pause. If anything, her movements become more measured—curious.

She speaks only after a second one follows: a breathy whimper, pitched like a purr. Her voice is low, weightless. “Even instinct has shape… how fragile.”

It’s not disapproval. She never mocks or questions. But something about the way she looks at you—like she’s dissecting the exact moment your body overflows with sound—makes you squirm under her gaze. You stammer an apology, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Her response is simple: fingers brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You are not broken. You are... responding.” Then her hand lowers again, returning to where you need her most, the tempo unchanged.

Mystic Flour Cookie treats your sounds like a ritual. She experiments, quiet and meticulous, observing what touch draws out what kind of noise. A soft croon when she presses lower. A little trill when she circles with her thumb. Not once does she tease you for it. But she does begin to seek it.

Sometimes, she even creates an illusion—a cocoon of mist and flour-scented fog—to dull the world outside. In that stillness, your animalistic sounds become sacred. Divine, even. They echo in the hush like bells ringing through a temple. “Instinct still blooms, even beneath the ash.”

If you ever falter, ashamed of how your body reacts, she simply touches your chest, grounding you with a single cool palm. “You may continue. Or remain still. The result is yours to choose.”

But she never once asks you to stop.

Because Mystic Flour Cookie, once the Prophet of Volition, now the Herald of Apathy, finds herself quietly fascinated by the one thing she can’t strip from you—your primal response to love. A sound with no meaning, and yet… all of it.

She doesn't claim to understand your softness. But she will preserve it.

Even if she doesn't say it aloud, even if she watches in silence—

She listens to you.

And she listens to the little noises you make as if they're the last proof that meaning still exists. Eternal Sugar Cookie

You were never meant to make a sound in her Garden.

It was always still. Always soft. Always hushed under petal-blush mist and syrup-dripped bliss. Eternal Sugar Cookie prided herself on the perfection of it. A world without raised voices. A sanctuary without need.

And then you purred.

Not loud. Not even on purpose. Just a quiet, helpless little sound—half moan, half instinct—slipping from your throat as her cool hand traced along your inner thigh, drawing lazy circles in frosting-slick skin. The sound echoed faintly off sugar-glass pillars, sharp and feral in contrast to the hush.

She paused.

And smiled.

A slow, eerie smile. As if she’d just spotted a butterfly where none should exist.

“Oh…” she cooed, voice a velvet hush. “How curious. Such a raw little note from my precious one.”

You froze, heat flooding your cheeks, instinctively trying to hide behind your trembling hands. But she only leaned in, brushing them aside with sugar-slick fingers.

“Don’t be ashamed,” she whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “It’s beautiful. You're beautiful when your instincts bloom like this.”

You chirped again—an accident—when her hand dipped between your thighs.

Her wings twitched behind her. Not the large, feathery ones. The other ones. Smaller. Tainted. Hidden beneath her hair like secrets.

“Oh, do it again,” she murmured. “Sing for me, darling creature. Let your little body speak.”

You whimpered, trying to hold it in. Her fingers just barely circled your heat, teasing—never fully touching, never fully stopping. Keeping you on that edge. She was good at that.

The control.

The way she dangled release in front of you like candied fruit, just out of reach.

But it wasn’t about your pleasure, not really.

It was about the reaction.

Every twitch. Every desperate mewl. The soft, guttural purrs that rolled from your throat when you could no longer bear the pressure building in your core.

Each one made her shiver. Each one felt like cracking through her false serenity.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” she whispered, dragging her tongue in a slow, possessive stripe up your neck. “Such primal sweetness… I could drink you in forever.”

You gasped as she bit down—gently, but enough to make your hips jump.

Another noise escaped you, high-pitched and broken.

Chitter.

“There it is…” she crooned. “That’s my little beast.”

She pressed your legs open wider, laying you bare beneath the glow of her sugar-dipped halo, mist curling at your ankles like steam rising from a sacrificial altar.

“Be loud. Be needy. Be mine.”

She smiled as her fingers finally pushed inside you—slow, deep, calculated. Not to ruin you. Not yet.

To learn you.

To memorize every reaction. To chase those delicious, inhuman sounds until they were hers.

And when you cried out again—something between a mewl and a squeak—she let out a sigh so soft it almost sounded like prayer.

“My sweetest sin,” she whispered.

“Sing for me again.”

[fixated-cookies]

You know i don't have any ideias here but let go with bunny suit y/n x yandere shadow milk cookie

both sfw and nsfw If you want of course :v

oooooh yess, he's definitely the type to do a little trick with them hahah

You stared down at the outfit in your lap like it might bite you.

“…You’re kidding,” you mumbled.

Shadow Milk Cookie was not kidding.

He was already lounging dramatically across a velvet chaise, chin in his hand, watching your reaction with infuriating delight. “Oh, come now, darling. You’d look positively edible in it.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s the point~” he sang, rolling onto his back with a lazy laugh. “Look at the little tail! The floppy ears! The way it hugs your hips just so—ah, it’s like it was made for you.”

Your hands curled around the suit. The soft velvet fabric. The stitched buttons. The little black ribbon on the back.

“No,” you said, standing. “I’m not putting this on.”

He was beside you before you could take a step.

You gasped as shadowy tendrils slipped across the door behind you, closing it with a soft click. His fingers—cool and pale—cupped your cheek, tilting your head back.

“You will,” he said gently. “Because I asked. And because you know what happens when you disobey.”

You swallowed.

“And besides…” His smile widened. “You’d do anything to keep me happy, wouldn’t you? Your sweet little heart can’t bear to disappoint me.”

“I—” you hesitated.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “Just try it on. If you truly hate it… I’ll tear it right off myself.”

Your face burned.

“Now,” he whispered. “Be a good girl. Put it on for me, little bunny.”

And like always… you did.

....

The dressing room was quiet.

Just you… and the mirror.

You adjusted the top of the bunny suit again, tugging at the silky fabric as it clung a little too snugly against your curves. The puffed little tail wiggled with each nervous shift of your hips. The ears flopped with every turn of your head.

It was humiliating.

But…

You did a slow spin.

In the mirror, the reflection looking back wasn’t half as silly as you expected. It was… kind of cute. Kind of pretty. You blinked at yourself, cheeks flushed, hands nervously tugging down the hem even though it wasn’t going anywhere.

"I can't believe I actually put this on…"

You lifted a hand and gave the ears a flick. They bounced right back into place.

"...Not terrible."

You twirled again—just once more. Light. Playful. Testing how the ribbon twirled with you, how the suit hugged your thighs, how the tail bounced.

“Adorable,” came the voice behind you, low and far too pleased.

You shrieked.

Spinning around, you found Shadow Milk Cookie reclining in the shadows of the doorframe, his grin a crescent moon carved into dusk.

“How long have you been there?!”

“Long enough,” he purred, licking his lips. “The little spin nearly did me in, dearest. Truly, you shouldn’t tempt me so. Not when you look like that.”

You scrambled to cover your thighs, mortified. “You weren’t supposed to see—!”

“Oh, but I did. And I intend to see much more.” He stepped closer. “You look absolutely ravishing,” Shadow Milk crooned, voice thick with syrup and sin as he crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you put this on just to torment me.”

Your back hit the mirror with a soft thud.

“H-Hey—wait—!” you squeaked, but it was far too late.

He was already there, arms braced on either side of your head. His grin? Wolfish. His eyes? Glowing with barely contained hunger. That glimmering crescent smile widened when he took in how flushed your cheeks were, how your breath caught when his fingers just ghosted the edge of the satin.

“My little bunny, all dressed up… and yet so shy.” His voice dipped low, purring directly against your ear. “Did you think I’d simply watch and do nothing? No, no, no, dearest… You spun for me. That was an invitation.”

His hands slid along your waist. Up your ribs. Down to your hips again. Always teasing, always circling—never quite settling where you expected. He was drinking in every twitch, every trembling breath.

“You should see yourself,” he whispered, lips brushing your neck. “Pressed against glass… chest rising and falling so fast… thighs all tight and trembling. You're the picture of innocence wrapped in vice.”

You gasped when he leaned in fully, pinning you to the mirror with his body. The ears on your head bounced from the force.

“Shall I help you out of this little number?” he purred, already tugging at the zipper like he owned your skin beneath it. “Or shall I keep you in it while I ruin you?”

You weren’t sure where to look. His main eyes gleamed with something feral—but it was the others that truly made you squirm. The ones hidden in the shadowy tangle of his hair, flickering open like a storm of lanterns, blinking hungrily all across your chest, your thighs, your lips. Each one twitching like it hurt to watch, like they couldn’t get enough.

It was too much.

“D-Don’t look so much,” you whispered, hands coming up to cover your chest—

But he laughed. Sharp and sweet and far too pleased.

“Oh, bunny,” he cooed, teeth flashing with glee, “You put on a whole performance in front of the mirror for me, and now you’re shy?”

He rolled his hips against yours, slow and heavy. You gasped at the hardness pressing against you through his suit, the faintest grind of something hot and pulsing under his lapis and black harlequin garb.

“You’ve made me hard, darling,” he whispered, nose brushing your cheek. “All these eyes, all of me… wants. I can’t blink—I don’t want to miss a single twitch.”

His hands squeezed your hips, then slid up beneath the velvety edge of your outfit. No more teasing. No more dancing.

“I’m going to keep you right here,” he breathed, pressing you harder into the glass. “And I’m going to touch every part you tried to hide. Let me see where it gets warm… where it pulses.”

Another eye blinked open in his hair.

Then another.

And another.

His tongue darted out to lick a slow stripe up your neck.

“Ohhh… look at you,” he hums, breathless, kneeling between your legs like some deranged priest offering his devotion. “All pretty and flustered. All mine.” His voice is syrup-slick and dripping with giddy cruelty, every syllable teased between panting gasps.

“You should see what you do to me," he purrs, and you do—a sharp, desperate tent straining beneath his bodysuit, his hips barely moving as if the smallest friction might send him over the edge.

It starts with that teasing purr from between your thighs. His lips drag lower, mouth hot and soaked in reverence, and then… he pauses.

“Hm? What’s this, little bunny…” he hums, claws lightly tracing the lower hem. You feel his breath where the plush velvet tapers, where the tight seams hug your core just a little too snug.

And then he laughs.

Soft. Breathless. Unnerving.

“Oh… you didn’t notice, did you?” he coos, like he’s telling you a secret. “I had this little detail added just for me~”

His fingers press against the plush, and—zzzzip—

Right between your legs, a hidden discreet zipper glides down, smooth and slow. He uses just two fingers, deliberate and playful, tugging the fabric open inch by inch to reveal the softest, most sensitive parts of you. His grin splits wider with every second, his tongue peeking out just a little as he watches your expression.

“There we go~” he murmurs, delighted. “So easy. So exposed. So perfect.”

The suit stays on—tight and flattering everywhere else—but that little vulnerable opening he made? That’s all he needs. The zipper's left halfway down, teasingly open like an invitation he’s already accepted. “You’ll thank me,” he whispers, hands clutching your thighs with trembling force, “for every minute I spend down here.” He presses a kiss to the heat between your legs, slow and lingering, and grins against you when you jolt. “For every—mmm—lick I give this sweet little prize.” And with your legs trembling, your face hot, and all those staring eyes twitching in excitement?

He doesn’t even hesitate before burying his face right in again, tongue first, hands gripping your hips like handles.

[fixated-cookies]

ahh ive finally released my first post on my multifandom blog, for those who are interested in demon slayer (THE MOVIE IS OUT) check it out! I may be focusing on demon slayer for a bit considering all the new content that just got released but feel free to request anything

Communion

[fixated-cookies]

i am burdened with the curse of wanting to dominate Burning Spice sooo bad. Do i realistically think he'd actually go along with that? No, probably not. But the idea of getting a man that I knooow is sooo much bigger and stronger than me on his knees begging? That does something to me. am I alone in this curse surely someone out there also sees my vision hsdgkdsg

There’s something so deliciously cursed about the fantasy of bringing a man like Burning Spice Cookie—this towering, militant force of power to his knees. Like, yes, he is fire incarnate, yes, he believes in discipline and domination and the futility of softness… but imagine being the one exception. The one soul who has the gall to grab him by the chin, force his gaze upward, and say: "kneel." And he fights it, of course. Scoffs. Laughs bitterly. “You think a spark like you can control a wildfire?”

But his knees still hit the ground.

Not because he’s weak. Not because you’re stronger.

But because you’re worthy.

But if we want him begging....

The altar trembled beneath his weight.

Burning Spice Cookie was on his knees—again—but this time, not for a ritual or a throne or a pyre. No… this time, it was for you.

His hands, rough and calloused, braced the stone floor like it took everything in him not to lunge. Not to rip your garments. Not to press you down and take what he knew was meant to be his.

His breath hitched, voice cracking like scorched bark in the wind.

“Please,” he rasped, like the word poisoned his tongue. “Let me have you. I—” His jaw clenched. “I burn. I rot. I’m meant to destroy, not… not need.”

You reached out, cupping his cheek.

That undid him.

He buried his face into your thigh, muffling a sound too guttural to be human. His fingers gripped your hips, trembling.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice lower now—frantic under the surface. “You weren’t supposed to matter. I wasn’t supposed to want this.” A pause. His head tilted up, golden eyes blazing with possession. “But I do. I want you ruined by me. Filled with me. Soaked in my scent until the world forgets it ever touched you.”

He pressed a kiss just above your core—slow, reverent, and trembling.

“I would beg for you. But don’t mistake it for weakness.”

Another kiss.

“I am not soft.”

Another.

“I am not yours.”

His mouth hovered, breath hot.

“You are mine.”

[fixated-cookies]

Looking at all the smc posts where he fucks reader to get them pregnant… how would it go for burning spice?? If he’d even consider it, that is. Maybe it’d be more of creating an “heir” to his title

ughh yess The way burning spice behaves, I'd find it almost hard to believe he'd ever want a child considering he absolutely despises the cycle of "Grow, Wither, Decay" But maybe if he realizes that you're worthy enough for something such as an heir it would awaken something in him to hopefully change that horrible cycle hes trapped in “If anything could carry my flame beyond this cursed loop… it would be you.”

The fire within Burning Spice Cookie was not born of warmth—it was a curse, a hissed promise of ruin. Grow. Wither. Decay. That was the chant that lived behind his eyes, burned into his soul like an eternal brand. It echoed with every step, every breath, every fight. Nothing lasted. Nothing ever could.

So why… why did you?

You weren’t like the others. Fragile things always came close to his heat, fascinated by the glow, only to blister and flee. But you? You stood firm, stared him down even when the flame snarled, even when his temper boiled and cracked the ground beneath his feet. You didn’t flinch when he spat venom or carved truths meant to wound.

You endured.

And that made you dangerous.

The idea of a child—of an heir—was laughable once. The thought of something made from him, cursed with his fire, destined to fall like all else? He would’ve burned the notion before it bloomed. But lately…

Lately, he caught himself watching you.

Not with hunger. Not with conquest.

With purpose.

With his arms braced around your hips, his chest pressed to your back, he stilled—not rutting, not teasing. Just breathing. Feeling your pulse. Wondering what it might be like if you bore something more. A spark of him. A shard of you. A defiant flame forged from shared madness.

He wouldn’t call it love.

He would call it war against time.

“Do you understand what you’re asking for?” he murmured, voice a low growl against your throat. “To carry my fire? To keep it alive long after I’m ash?”

You turned, blinking at him.

And smiled.

That was enough.

He pinned you with reverence in his grip—possessive, awed, terrified of how badly he wanted to believe in a future.

Not a cycle.

A beginning.

“Then burn with me.” But don't mistake this tenderness for something gentle. He doesn’t start slow.

There’s a stillness to him beforehand, yes—his hands hovering over your hips like he’s waiting for some final confirmation. A flicker of restraint. But the moment you nod, the moment you invite him in?

It’s over.

He's all flame and fury, driving into you with the weight of generations and the rage of someone who’s never believed in tomorrow until now. His rhythm is brutal, unrelenting—each thrust a vow, a command, a violent refusal of fate.

You’re not just being fucked. You’re being imprinted on.

"Take it," he hisses, voice rasping like coal against your skin. "Take my fire—prove it can live in you. Prove this world can give me something worth keeping."

He doesn’t kiss softly—he bites. He doesn’t hold you delicately—he grips, bruises blooming where his fingers curl around your thighs, your waist, your throat. Not out of cruelty, but desperation.

He needs this.

Needs to see your belly swell with his legacy. Needs to watch you pant and tremble beneath him, wrecked and filled to the brim with the proof that maybe—just maybe—he was meant to create instead of destroy.

And when he finishes—throbbing deep inside you, hips pressed flush and unmoving—it’s not a roar, but a broken whisper:

"Let it begin here.

[fixated-cookies]

GAWD, YOUR WRITTING IS THE LAST FRAGMENT IS TOP TIER, i also wondering if you've gonna continue..with pure vanilla maybe?👀 No rush of course! Please take your time

I was wondering on reader opinions towards Pure vanilla and what backstory they had in this AU? The few things i noticed is that Reader is kind of trapped in a beautiful cage with no freedom, craves one but afraid they might not survive because the outside world wouldn't treat them like Pure vanilla does(i may be wrong but this is how i see them) and Pure vanilla presence is a discomfort but y/n can't figured where it was, as if it was covered by the gentle treatment he gave to us.

I felt like we also never know why the worker(maid/butler/guard etc) in vanilla castle is empty, something has to do with smc by their absence (idk if this was mention in the fic, i'm sorry if it does, i have a bad memory) it intrigued me by the opposite behaviour they gave to reader, it balanced well and fit them like yin and yang but smc is kind of the yin(in evil there kindness) and pv is yang (in kindness there evil) since pv gave me discomfort smc does, was it inteneded? Or maybe, i just got creep out by Pv behaviour

Though, a scenarios of reader running away from them keep repeating in my mind, would the necklace/souljam they wore tracked them down and smc and pv will easily find where they are? Though, thinking about it, i think it will caused a havoc when pv just realized were not in the castle and order guard to find us around the vanilla kingdom. Yeaa, if i was in that situation i know i'll be DEAD DEAD😦

And i apologized for making this really wrong and bomb you with many question, i swear i'm just a curious fella, nothing else. Have a good day, love your writting💕💖

oooh yeahh, worldbuilding, my favorite! Okokok so reader's opinion of them in this au may be something akin to Stockholm Syndrome. They know and are aware that the situation their in isn't exactly consensual but it could've been a lot more worse, especially towards shadow milk cookie given his past. Wwith pure vanilla its more like “He’s kind to me. He’s never raised his voice. He brings me tea every morning and brushes my hair when I’m tired. I should be grateful.” Reader wants to believe they love Pure Vanilla. They want to believe he’s safety. He’s calm. He’s nurturing. He gives them everything they could ever need. He tells them the world is cruel, and they’re safer in the palace. That they’re not ready for what’s out there. And… maybe he’s right? On the other hand with Shadow Milk cookie

Reader finds him terrifying. He’s loud, unpredictable, chaotic. He teases, corners, toys with them. But unlike Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk doesn’t pretend. His obsession is clear. “You’re mine, and I’m going to make sure you know it.” is what he says.

But somehow that brutal honesty coming from a being that is known for their deceits feels oddly freeing. Their basically ying and yang; In kindness their is evil, and in evil their is kindness Shadow Milk Cookie is terrifying and unhinged, but never lies about what he is. His obsession is raw, but not hidden.

Pure Vanilla Cookie is tender and soft, but there’s something almost… divine and cold about him. As if he believes so wholly that what he’s doing is right that he can’t even see how cruel he’s become in the process. Also with the palace staff dissapearing was totally on shadow milks end, he may just have teleported them somewhere comedic like in the middle of the forest lol, or maybe into some other domain temporarily. In fact, when Pure vanilla came back, he was confused on why the palace guards didn't greet him and why servants were gone! heres a little drabble on his perspective

The palace was too quiet.

Pure Vanilla’s steps echoed faintly as he walked through the main corridor, the soft clink of his staff the only sound for miles. The usual laughter of maids, the gentle clatter of porcelain, the familiar greetings of the guards—all gone.

“...Strange,” he murmured, glancing around.

No one had come to greet him. Not a single guard stood post.

Even the garden doves weren’t singing tonight.

He paused by the entrance hall, fingers tightening slightly on his staff. “Where is everyone?”

A vague ripple of magic still hung in the air. Subtle. Slippery. A scent like milk and blueberries danced faintly on the wind, too faint for anyone else to notice.

Pure Vanilla exhaled slowly. “Shadow Milk…”

There was no anger in his voice. Only a soft sigh, and a gentle crease to his brow. The kind that comes not from wrath—but from resignation.

He turned toward the east wing. Your wing.

Perhaps you had answers. Perhaps you’d been frightened by the quiet, or were waiting for him to return.

The door creaked open.

He stepped inside.

And the world changed.

There you were—limbs tangled with Shadow Milk’s, flushed and marked and panting against his chest, half-slick with the proof of what had happened. Your Soul Jam fragment glowed wildly against your throat.

And Shadow Milk?

That demon smiled like a child who had painted a masterpiece in blood. -- Also I like to think pure vanilla isn't necessarily jealous or outraged at shadow milk hehehe, don't worry i'll continue to this little story very soon.

[fixated-cookies]

Just an idea, but what about yandere Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk Cookie with a fem reader who is wholly oblivious to their feelings and thinks they’re into each other and wants to wingman a little? And whenever either of them try to flirt it just flies right over her head. Whenever she comes close to realizing they’re actually into her, she thinks “wow that’s self centered of me to imagine” and brushes it off.

Also to be clear, this isn’t a Shadow/Vanilla prompt.

ooh i have to do this!! this dynamic is so unique

Part two

You weren’t stupid, of course. You’d read the room. You’d seen how Shadow Milk Cookie always hovered near Pure Vanilla Cookie, voice full of teasing lilt and sly touches, brushing past him like silk. And Pure Vanilla? He never looked away from Shadow Milk for long—always soft-eyed, always composed, even when the jester pushed boundaries.

Naturally, you thought they were in love.

Which, in your defense, seemed like a really sweet thing! You loved love. You were all for it. And if your two closest companions had hearts wrapped up in one another, well… it was only right to help out.

So you made it your mission.

“I made extra tea!” you chirped, setting two cups between them. “You know, in case you two wanted a little time alone…”

Shadow Milk’s head snapped to you so fast it was audible.

Pure Vanilla blinked slowly. “Alone?”

“Mhm! Don’t worry, I’ll be upstairs. Oh! I left a love poem in one of the cups by accident… teehee, I guess it’s for whoever finds it~!”

Shadow Milk stared like you’d slapped him.

Pure Vanilla’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his hand—maybe the teacup—cracked just a little.

You beamed.

“I’m rooting for you both! Seriously, you have such amazing chemistry. Like fire and honey!”

And then you skipped off, happy to give them “privacy,” entirely unaware that you’d just triggered the worst kind of unspoken war.

Shadow Milk turned to Pure Vanilla with a sharp grin and wide, flickering eyes.

“Oh, I do love your little pet’s imagination,” he purred. “Tell me—should I let her keep dreaming… or should I wake her up myself?”

Pure Vanilla only smiled, tight and cold.

“She’ll understand in time,” he murmured. “We just have to be patient. For now.”

His gaze drifted after you.

“She still thinks this is about us.”

...

You knocked on the door to the study like it was a secret mission.

Pure Vanilla looked up from his scrolls, surprise melting into that gentle, ever-welcoming smile. “Oh…? Is something the matter?”

You peeked in dramatically. “Can I come in? It’s kind of important. Like… romantically important.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, posture stiffening.

“…Of course,” he said smoothly, setting his quill down. “I’m listening.”

You tiptoed in, folded your hands in front of you like you were about to confess something huge, and whispered, “It’s about Shadow Milk.”

His eye twitched.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “Is it?”

“Mhm! I just—well—I know he’s… difficult, sometimes. But I really think he likes you. Like, a lot.” You leaned in, absolutely glowing with sincerity. “But he’s the type who needs… reassurance. You know? Affection. Compliments. Like—maybe next time you see him, say something poetic. You’re good at that, right?”

He stared at you for a long moment. “You want me to compliment him?”

You nodded fervently.

“Maybe… say you like his hair. Or his laugh. Or how he’s so clever, even when he’s being a little mean.” You giggled. “And don’t be afraid to touch his hand or something! He acts tough, but I think he’d melt.”

Pure Vanilla's mouth opened. Then closed. His knuckles went white where he gripped the armrest.

“…You truly believe he’s the one I wish to… pursue?” he asked carefully.

You tilted your head. “Isn’t he?”

His gaze slid away from you. “No,” he said, with the faintest edge of exhale.

But you misheard it. Interpreted it as nervous denial. You gasped, soft and excited.

“Ohhh! You’re shy about it, huh?? Don’t worry, I won’t say a word! I’m just glad I can help.” You gave him a big, dopey grin and waved on your way out. “You’ve got this, your Grace!!”

The door shut behind you.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Ten minutes later…

You tiptoed into the shadowed corner of the castle where Shadow Milk Cookie loomed dramatically against a balcony rail, staring off into the distance like he was in the middle of a brooding opera.

He didn’t even turn to look at you. “Come to confess your sins, little pet?”

You giggled. “Not quite. But I do have advice.”

He arched a brow, intrigued now. “Oh?”

“It’s about Pure Vanilla,” you whispered. “I just think you’ve got a real chance with him, you know?”

He blinked. “I do?”

“Definitely! But you’re too—mmm—teasing. Flirty. I think it makes him nervous. You should try being sincere for once. Just one day! Compliment him. Tell him how wise he is. Touch his shoulder without making it a joke.” You smiled warmly, like you were gifting him a key to heaven. “I know he acts calm, but deep down, he probably wants to be swept off his feet.”

Shadow Milk stared at you in absolute silence.

“…You think I want him?” he asked flatly.

You nodded helpfully. “It’s okay! You don’t have to act tough about it. I support you both!”

He leaned down until your faces were barely inches apart, shadows flickering wildly in his hair.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

You blinked up. “Huh?”

“Nothing~.” He straightened up with a sigh, brushing his hair back with the air of someone praying for patience. “I’ll keep your advice in mind, little dove. But one day…”

He paused, mouth curling into a twisted grin.

“One day you’ll realize the truth. And I wonder, then—who you’ll try to save.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing.” He winked. “Run along now. Go play matchmaker.”

You beamed and skipped off again, totally unaware of the tension boiling just beneath his skin.

later on, It was Pure Vanilla who invited you.

A soft knock at your door. A polite, gentle request. “When you’re free, dear one… Shadow Milk and I would like to see you. Together. Privately.”

Your heart practically soared.

“Oh my gosh—finally?!” you gasped, clutching your chest with joy. “Did you two talk? Did you finally realize?!”

Pure Vanilla smiled. Tired. Fond. A little too fond.

“Yes,” he murmured. “We… realized.”

He didn’t elaborate.

You followed eagerly, feet light with excitement as he led you through quiet corridors—ones not often used. The path curved oddly, downward, into the lower halls where fewer guards stood. Where only the torchlight flickered.

You didn't question it. You were too excited.

“I’m so happy for you guys,” you giggled as you walked. “I really did my best to help! You’re such different personalities but that’s what makes it work. You balance each other out.”

“…We do,” he said. His voice echoed strangely.

You didn’t notice the way his hand brushed the door before you entered. You didn’t see the faint gleam in his eyes as he stepped aside and let you in first.

The chamber was dim and warm. Low lights. Heavy drapes. Something thick in the air—scented, cloying, like honey and wine and—

“Surprise~.”

You blinked.

Shadow Milk Cookie lounged at the far end of the room, seated atop a chaise like royalty awaiting judgment. His legs crossed, his eyes sharp with glittering amusement, like he already knew how this was going to end.

“You came,” he purred. “Our little matchmaker.”

You clasped your hands together, practically vibrating. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect! Oh, I’m so—wait, is this where you’re going to confess to each other? Should I leave? Or—or officiate??”

“Officiate,” Shadow Milk echoed, tone flat.

Pure Vanilla stepped in behind you. The door clicked shut.

You turned, smiling up at him. “Wait, do you want me to give you privacy or—?”

“No.” His voice was soft, but final. “We want you here.”

You paused. Confused now. “Oh… well, that’s sweet. Is this like… a friendship circle? I don’t mind—”

“Still playing dumb?” Shadow Milk cut in, standing now. His boots made soft, slow clicks as he approached. “Or do you truly not see it? Even now?”

“See… what?” you asked, laughter faltering.

He was closer now. Close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“You think we’re in love,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

You flushed. “Well—yeah, kind of. I mean, you’re always around each other. You talk in that weird flirty way—”

“And who,” Pure Vanilla asked gently, stepping beside you, “told you that?”

Your lips parted.

“…Me.”

“You assumed.”

“I—yes, but it’s obvious isn’t it? The way you—” you turned between them, now growing flustered “—I mean, you two are always so intense and—”

“Toward you,” Shadow Milk murmured.

You froze.

“What?”

He was behind you now, Pure Vanilla in front. Caging you in without force, but with presence. With truth.

“All of that,” Pure Vanilla said softly. “The flowers. The words. The long glances. The jealousy.”

“It wasn’t for each other,” Shadow Milk purred. “It was for you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head. “No—no, that’s not—I thought you—”

“You were wrong,” Pure Vanilla said, voice warm and unwavering. “We’ve waited. Watched. Let you play your little game. Let you pretend.”

You backed up into Shadow Milk’s chest. He caught you gently by the arms.

“But we’re done pretending,” he whispered in your ear. “Aren’t we?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re the center of this,” Pure Vanilla said, stepping closer. “You always were.”

“And now,” Shadow Milk grinned, pressing a soft kiss just under your ear, “you’ll finally stop running from it.”

“Because we’re not in love with each other,” Pure Vanilla finished. “We’re both in love with you.”

And this time, you couldn’t brush it off.

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room changed.

Thick. Slow. Like honey choking your lungs.

Pure Vanilla was still smiling, but it was off now—wrong. Not his usual gentle grace, but something deeper. Something more desperate. More possessive.

And behind you, Shadow Milk Cookie’s grip had changed too. No longer teasing. His fingers pressed tighter into your arms, thumbs stroking the fabric of your sleeves like he was memorizing you through touch alone.

“I—I think this is a joke,” you stammered, trembling. “You’re trying to mess with me again, right? Haha. You’re both so funny—”

“Stop that.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was suddenly hard.

You flinched.

He stepped closer. Slowly. “Stop pretending we’re not in love with you. Stop treating it like some game. You’ve ignored our affections, misread our intentions, deliberately twisted everything we give.”

“I didn’t mean to—!”

“But you did,” Shadow Milk whispered, mouth brushing your ear. “You did. Again and again. ‘Oh, they must be in love with each other.’ ‘Oh, how selfish to think it’s me.’” He laughed—low, sharp. “Selfish? Darling, you’re the most precious thing in this world. You’re the center of our universe.”

“I didn’t know,” you pleaded. “I didn’t realize—I never wanted to hurt you—”

“You did,” Pure Vanilla murmured. “Just not with cruelty. But with your ignorance.”

And then, before you could speak again—he grabbed your chin.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Fingers firm, tilting your face up until your wide, tear-glossed eyes met his.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

And that’s when you saw it.

Not mercy. Not warmth.

Obsession.

“Pure Vanil—” His lips crashed into yours.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was desperate. Starving. As if he’d waited years to finally taste you and now that he had, he’d never stop. You whimpered against him, hands braced against his chest in panic—but he didn’t let up. His mouth moved over yours like a prayer and a punishment, possessive and furious and needy.

You gasped, and that was all he needed. His tongue slipped in, claiming. Worshiping. Ruining.

Shadow Milk was still behind you, and when you jerked in surprise, he only laughed—low and throaty and delighted.

“Oh, you bastard,” he purred. “Couldn’t even wait your turn?”

Pure Vanilla finally broke the kiss, panting.

His thumb dragged down your lower lip, red and glistening now. “She needed to understand,” he whispered.

“She’s starting to,” Shadow Milk crooned, gripping your waist and dragging you back into his chest. “Aren’t you, pet? Starting to feel it now? The way your body listens to us even when your mind tries to run?”

You couldn’t answer. Your lips were still trembling, breath caught in your throat. Your knees weak.

And they hadn’t even started.

“You don’t get to play matchmaker anymore,” Pure Vanilla said softly, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’re ours.”

“And now we’ll teach you what that means,” Shadow Milk breathed, nuzzling into your neck with a grin that felt like the end of your world.

[fixated-cookies]

Sanctuary in steam

Pairing: Dark Cacao Cookie x Beta!Reader (Human-turned-Cookie) Word Count: ~2.1k Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: A/B/O dynamics (Alpha x Beta), SOFT YANDERE, period sex, possessive behavior, protective yandere elements, sacred bath intimacy, explicit sexual content (vaginal sex in bathtub), emotional vulnerability, praise, reader crying during sex, aftercare, non-canon worldbuilding (human-turned-cookie, potion magic, cookie court politics), sacred romance vibes, post-menstrual comfort, bathing tradition

COMMISSION

part 1

The scent of crushed herbs drifted faintly through the stone hallways, trailing steam behind it like incense in a sacred shrine. Somewhere deep within the fortress, past the council chambers and war rooms, past the guards who knew better than to ask questions, the royal bath had been drawn.

It was tradition now.

On the days your body turned against you, when the ache settled low in your belly and your limbs grew too heavy to stand, you never had to say a word. He would know. He always knew. The scent alone was enough to summon him—warm blood mingled with magic, the echo of your old life flickering through the perfect imitation of Cookie form. Even if you tried to hide it, Dark Cacao could sense it. He claimed it haunted his bones like frost before a storm.

Tonight, the bath had been prepared before you asked.

The waters were tinted pink with crushed berries and balm leaves. Steam curled into the rafters. Fresh towels, warmed beside the hearth, waited in a careful stack. Even your favorite robe had been laid out—the soft one, lined with velvet and stitched with gold.

You stood at the edge of the water now, bare feet pressed against the warm stone, wrapped in nothing but your silken shift. The pain hadn’t crested yet, but it pulsed like thunder just beneath your skin. You were restless. Sensitive. Your body betrayed you with every tremble.

And then—his presence.

You didn’t hear him enter, but you felt him.

Heavy footsteps. The scent of steel and snowfall. A low, rumbling breath like distant thunder. You turned your head slowly—and there he was.

Dark Cacao Cookie.

Still in partial armor, though his gloves were gone and his cape had been folded aside. He looked at you like a soldier who had returned from war only to find peace waiting.

"You're early," you murmured.

"So are you," he replied.

You turned away, staring down into the rippling bath. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He said nothing. Just stepped closer.

Then his hand touched your waist—slowly, reverently—and your breath caught.

“You ache,” he said, as if confirming what his senses had already told him.

You nodded. “More than usual.”

His other hand came to your hip, guiding you gently. “Then let us begin.”

He always helped you in. Always undressed you slowly, never in haste, as though each ribbon and fold of fabric was sacred. Even now, with the heat of your body betraying you, the way your thighs trembled and your scent turned sweeter beneath the ache—he said nothing cruel. Nothing teasing.

Only worship. Only patience.

Only the quiet devotion of a man who had learned your rhythms like prayer.

The water embraced you like a sigh.

It was hot, not scalding, but deep enough to reach your shoulders and thick with the scent of wild balm and crushed hibiscus. You sank in slow, easing down with a wince, your knees curling slightly as the heat soothed the sharpest bite of your cramps. The pain didn’t leave entirely—but it dulled. Melted. Left you soft and quiet and warm.

Dark Cacao joined you after a beat of silence. You heard the clink of his armor being removed, piece by piece, methodical and patient. You didn’t turn to watch, though the heat rising beneath your skin wasn’t just from the bath. When the water shifted again, and you felt the heavy ripple of his form lowering across from you, your breath caught.

He took his place behind you.

Always behind you. Always with his arms wide and waiting.

You leaned back before you could overthink it. Let yourself rest against his chest—his broad, unmoving chest, scarred and lined with a strength no bath could wash away. His arms moved around you, gentle but sure, palms spreading low across your belly, the warmth of his hands more soothing than any potion.

“I can feel it,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Here. Twisting.”

You nodded, cheek brushing the damp skin of his collar. “It hurts less like this.”

He didn’t answer with words. Just let his thumbs press small, circling strokes into your abdomen. One hand stayed there, steady, grounding you in place. The other lifted slowly—then dipped beneath the water to your thigh.

Your breath hitched.

“I can feel everything,” he whispered. “Every tremble. Every twitch of pain.”

His hand moved slowly up the inside of your thigh, underwater and unseen, but hot like coal, gentle like silk. “And I can feel something else,” he said, breath growing heavier. “Your heart. Racing.”

You swallowed. Tried to look away—but his hand caught your chin.

“You’re sensitive,” he said, voice rougher now. “More than usual. You always are, during this time.”

You blinked. He tilted your face just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“And you’re wet,” he added, low and close. “Not just from the bath.”

Your whole body tensed, and a soft whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

He held you tighter.

“I’m not trying to take advantage,” he murmured. “But I feel it. All of it. And if you need this—if you need me to help you—”

You turned your head just enough for your lips to brush his.

“Please,” you breathed. “I want—”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours, slow but hungry, like a dam finally giving way. His hand slid between your legs, fingers sinking gently as you gasped into his kiss. There was no teasing—just heat. Pressure. Relief. Like he already knew every angle that made you whimper and press closer, every motion that eased the ache while fanning a new fire.

“You’re always so soft,” he whispered against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “But now… now you’re burning.”

Your head fell back against his shoulder with a moan.

“I’m going to worship you properly,” he growled. “Let the bath be our altar.”

His hands never stopped moving.

One stayed cradling your belly, grounding you through each trembling breath, while the other coaxed your thighs open beneath the water—never forceful, never rushed. Just enough to make you shiver, to make your hips squirm slightly in search of more. Your legs, already pliant from heat and arousal, parted for him with a sigh.

“There,” he murmured. “Like that.”

His fingers found you beneath the surface—soft, slippery, already aching from how your body begged. He stroked once, gently, the motion more reverent than lustful, like he couldn’t believe how sweet you felt under his touch.

You gasped, curling tighter against his chest.

He groaned at the sound.

“You feel this deep,” he rasped, sliding two fingers slowly inside. “Tight. Pulsing.”

You cried out softly, heat building low and hot, your slick mixing with the bathwater as his fingers moved in slow, stretching motions.

“It’s the pain,” he whispered. “I know it hurts. Let me take it.”

You tried to answer, but your voice caught on a moan. Your walls clenched around his fingers, helpless and needy. You barely had time to think before he lifted you slightly, adjusting your hips, and pulled you flush to him—legs draped over his thighs, his hand still buried deep between your legs.

Then you felt it.

The firm, heavy press of his cock against your lower back. Hot and twitching, restrained only by the slow discipline he had mastered for years.

You turned your head, dazed and flushed, breath ghosting against his collarbone.

“You’re hard,” you whispered, stunned by the weight of him, the size.

“I’ve been hard,” he growled. “Since the moment I caught your scent.”

His hand slipped free from between your legs. You whimpered from the loss, but then—he gripped his length and slid it between your thighs, letting you feel every inch as he slowly rocked forward.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, though your body betrayed you with how you pushed back into him, eager and slick.

“I need to,” he breathed. “Not for release. For closeness.”

You nodded, and that was all he needed.

He lined himself up, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds with a stuttering breath. Then, slowly—so agonizingly slowly—he pushed inside.

You cried out, arching, clutching at his forearm where it held your waist.

“Too much?” he whispered, voice strained. “Tell me.”

You shook your head desperately. “No—please—don’t stop—”

He pressed deeper, letting you feel the weight of every inch, every pulse of restrained power. The stretch was intense, but the water helped, and your body—so soft, so sensitive from your cycle—welcomed him.

When he bottomed out, he didn’t move. Just held you.

His head bowed against your shoulder. His chest heaved. His arms wrapped tightly around you like a vice, keeping you still while he trembled from the feel of you around him.

“You’re everything,” he whispered hoarsely. “Everything I’ve ever sworn to protect. Every oath I’ve made—this is what it meant.”

You clutched him back, breath hitching when he began to move—slow, deep thrusts that rocked your whole body forward in the water.

The bath lapped and sloshed, quiet but constant, wrapping both of you in heat and rose-slick steam.

“I’ll never take another,” he murmured. “Even if this body burns for it, even if the kingdom begs. It will always be you.”

You couldn’t answer—not with words. Just moans, gasps, your nails digging into his forearm as he drove deeper with each press of his hips.

And deeper still. You didn’t know when you started crying.

Maybe it was the stretch. The heat. The ache deep inside you that was finally soothed not by potions or spells, but by him. Or maybe it was the way he whispered your name—low and reverent like a prayer—each time he bottomed out inside you, hips trembling, mouth open against your shoulder.

“You’re so warm,” he breathed. “So soft.”

He moved slowly, savoring you. Worshiping you.

The water rippled with every roll of his hips, steam curling around your flushed skin. His arms stayed locked around you the entire time, one hand splayed against your belly and the other gently cupping your breast, thumb tracing lazy circles around the sensitive peak.

It was too much. Too full. Too intimate.

And yet not enough.

You whimpered his name—broken and breathless—and that was what finally unraveled him.

He stilled deep inside you, teeth grit, body trembling from restraint. Then—he came with a long, low groan, hips jerking forward in shallow, instinctual thrusts as he spilled inside you. Thick. Hot. Endless.

You could feel it.

Every throb. Every pulse of warmth that filled you.

You let out a choked sob, overwhelmed. And instantly—his grip softened. He held you tighter, closer, lips brushing your temple.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “Let it out. You’re safe.”

Your breathing hitched. His palm spread across your belly protectively, his other hand now stroking up and down your side in long, steady passes.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “So perfect for me.”

You whimpered softly, body limp in his arms, and he lifted you slightly so your back pressed against his chest. He adjusted both of you until the water covered your lower halves again, shielding the evidence of his release, letting you float in warmth while he kissed your forehead, your cheek, your temple—everywhere but your lips.

“I’ll carry you after this,” he promised gently. “Warm towels. More tea. Rest, if you wish it.”

You nodded faintly, still trembling.

His voice dropped lower, into something even more sacred.

“I’ll always take care of you, even if the world forgets. Even if your magic fades or the grimoire crumbles. This bath… this body… this love—will always be yours.”

He pressed a kiss over your heart, where it fluttered like a soft drumbeat beneath your skin.

And then he just held you.

In silence. In reverence. In devotion so quiet it echoed louder than war cries.

The water cooled, but his warmth didn’t.

He stayed with you long after the mist had faded, his arms steady, his breath slow, and the sacred promise of his body still nestled deep within your own.

[fixated-cookies]

Hello!! Sorry for the message but I just wanted to inform you that the sign — that you use in your story is the same that Chat gpt uses when I want to translate my stories into English. I thought it was weird asf so I tried to generate a small story for seeing if he usually use it, then it gave me the same rendering as your story with the same symbol?? I really, really, love your story, but I advise you to fix those sign before people accuse you of using AI for your story, bye love you girl🫶

Ummm so hi thank you for this so much! But unfortunately the — symbol is very prevalent in writing, especially English writing. It's a grammar symbol that helps with stops instead of overusing the comma symbol (,)

It is unfortunately prevalent in many AI written documents like works for professors or academic related but unfortunately I can't do anything about that and I'm already used to writing it. -, –, and — are all grammar related that is used in writing and very important! Ai just picks up on it from stolen sources and writing :(

[fixated-cookies]

Hear me out- PV and SMC with a reader who’s small like very small and petite oop good luck y/n

Oh my gosh I typed this all on my phone because I'm out of state for fourth of July so this may shorter and also may have some spelling errors and weird formatting hahah

Despite being opposites, Pure Vanilla Cookie and Shadow Milk Cookie share one common weakness—you. So small. So soft. So perfectly ruinable.

Pure Vanilla Cookie treats your size like it’s a divine vulnerability. He’ll lift you like you weigh nothing, cradling you in his arms as if the wind might snatch you away. He speaks to you in that gentle, honeyed tone—praising you for being so good, so strong, even when you’re trembling in his robes. He’ll kneel to your level so you don’t feel overwhelmed, kiss your fingers like sacred relics, and hold you in his lap while healing you from dangers he allowed no one else to face but himself. But make no mistake—he likes that you’re small. His touches may be holy, but his mind drifts. Especially when your thighs barely fill his palms, when you shiver under the weight of his body, when your breath hitches from just a single kiss to your neck. He may blush... but he doesn’t stop.

Shadow Milk Cookie, meanwhile, is your tormentor wrapped in velvet. He loves how your body folds beneath him. He’ll trap you in his shadow just to see your tiny silhouette wriggle against his chest, stringing words like, “Poor little thing. Is that all the space I left you?” He picks you up one-handed, wraps his strings around your limbs just to tug your body into positions he wants—whining, squirming, gasping. When Pure Vanilla chastises him, he only snickers: “I’m just helping stretch her out, priest. You don’t want her to tear on your holy rod, do you?”

Together? They’re a nightmare. Pure Vanilla kisses your tears away as Shadow Milk causes them. Shadow Milk makes you whimper, Pure Vanilla makes you come undone. You try to crawl away? Vanilla pulls you into his arms. You beg for space? Shadow Milk slinks closer, whispering promises of how tight you’ll feel when they finally—finally—fill you together. Not just spiritually. Physically.

With you being so small, Pure Vanilla becomes ten times more delicate, as if you were carved from spun sugar and moonlight.

He holds you like prayer—cupping your cheek with a reverent palm, kissing your forehead like it’s holy ground. Every touch is measured, gentle, and laced with meaning. Even if you’re being intimate, his eyes are half-lidded with reverence, voice low and trembling:

“You are… so beautiful like this. Every part of you, soft and warm, and mine to cherish.”

He’ll never rush. He’ll spend hours worshipping your body—trailing kisses from your collarbone to your knees, murmuring soft thanks like you’re a blessing he’s not sure he deserves. The size difference doesn’t intimidate him,it just makes him more protective, more eager to please.

“Are you alright? Can I move? Just a little more, my love…”

He’ll adjust his pace constantly, wrapping his arms around your waist so you don’t shift too much. If your thighs tremble or you squeak too loudly? He’ll stop and kiss you better before continuing.

You are not a lust object to him—you’re a divine being in his arms, and every time he enters you, it feels like a vow renewed.

On the flip side… Shadow Milk Cookie is a menace. An obsessed, feral, smirking menace who gets off on how small you are. He loves that you struggle to take him fully. He makes it a struggle.

“Oh? Are you trembling already? But I’ve barely done anything~”

He’ll start slow. Playful. But it never stays soft for long. He’ll whisper the nastiest things against your ear, holding your wrists with one hand, keeping your hips up with the other.

“So tiny. So easy to fold up. Do you feel how deep I am right now? Hah… bet you’re too shy to say it, but I know you like it.”

And if you cry a little from the stretch or stimulation? He purrs in your ear and calls it a blessing. “C’mon, little teatoy. You’re not gonna break… well, not unless you want to.”

He’s obsessed with marking you—bites on your inner thighs, hickeys down your neck, finger bruises on your hips. He’ll press a hand against your lower belly, just to feel how deep he is. He might even tease Pure Vanilla about how tight you get for him.

“Your little guardian thinks he knows you? Hah… he’s never seen you drool from just one finger.”

Even when he’s being “nice,” he’s awful about it. Whispering praises just to fluster you. Laughing low when you try to hide your face. He thinks your embarrassment is adorable.

And despite it all, he adores you. He just shows it through obsession, teasing, and physical devotion that borders on overwhelming.

---

that moment when I'm at my family reunion for the fourth of July, once I get back I promise I'll do longer drabble post ahhhh

[fixated-cookies]

Sigh,, i need black sapphire in every way possible,, I have scraped up and eaten EVERY fic I can see of him sigh my walls are covered in photos of him,. do u have this with anyone cause I need to know people who do

- (May I be ➕ anon ? =])

ughh I have some headcanons and thoughts for this purple overgrown grape He speaks during intimacy—almost constantly. Never crude. Always composed. But filthy in how specific his praise is. He’ll tell you exactly how you taste, how you sound, how ruined you look when you fall apart around him. All while maintaining that soft, sultry radio cadence, like you’re his only listener. When you’re trembling, he’ll lean in, lips against your ear, and purr things like, “Darling… you don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you? Hah… but I’ll make sure you feel it.” And you will. Over and over.

Control is his worship. He’s not rough—not unless you beg. But he’s intense. His fingers will keep you on edge for hours if he has the time. One between your folds. Two inside. Three knuckles deep. He reads you better than anyone, pulling back just before release, making you sob, plead, bite his shoulder until you’re breathless. And the whole time, he never once breaks rhythm. He’ll keep the mic on sometimes but on a frequency that no others know about. Quiet. Hidden. Letting it catch just the sound of your slick, your gasps, the slap of skin to skin like a secret track hidden in the radio waves. No one ever suspects a thing… but you know.

He doesn’t always need to cum. Sometimes, it’s about your pleasure. About how wrecked he can make you before you even touch him. He’ll finger you through three orgasms and never unzip his slacks. He’ll kiss your overstimulated lips and hum against your throat, watching you shake and cry with need. “Look at you,” he’ll say, dragging his thumb over your soaked center. “Falling apart, and I haven’t even fucked you yet. Shall I wait until the next ad break?”

But when he does need release? It’s overwhelming. He grinds into you with a slow, punishing pace—never wild, never messy, but so deep you feel it in your lungs. His cock hits just right, again and again, with maddening restraint until you’re clawing at his back, begging him to let go. When he cums, it’s with a soft moan, lips pressed to your skin, voice whispering your name like a closing prayer. He doesn’t stop right after either. He keeps going. Riding the high of your whimpers, pressing deeper, slower, until you’re raw and full and dizzy with love.

“Three seconds,” he whispered.

You barely had time to breathe before the ON AIR sign blinked red.

And his fingers sank deeper.

“Good evening, my sweet things,” Black Sapphire purred, voice rolling out like honeyed wine through the booth’s broadcast system. “You’re listening to Sapphire After Dark… where the moon listens, and secrets bloom.”

Your thighs clenched around his wrist—glistening, trembling—your whole body arched awkwardly in his lap as you tried not to make a sound.

He chuckled low into the mic. “Tonight’s topic is… indulgence. Temptation. The little sins you save for midnight.” His fingers curled just right, and your back jerked. “Tell me… what’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted… that you knew you shouldn’t?”

You bit into your sleeve. He’d stripped you down from the waist below not even five minutes ago. Had the audacity to seat you on him, his slick hand teasing you open under the desk while the soft glow of the monitors lit your ruined expression.

He wasn't even hard. Not yet.

This was all for you.

“Mm… some things,” he murmured into the mic, “taste better when you’re not supposed to have them.”

You could feel it—that shift. The way he grinned without smiling. The way he flexed his fingers and your body obeyed without protest. He was barely moving them now. Slow, shallow pumps that kept you right on the edge. Warm and leaking. Helpless.

“But sometimes…” he sighed, pressing a kiss to the back of your ear, where the headphones didn’t reach, “you want to swallow them whole.”

You whined. It slipped out.

He turned off his own mic for a split second.

“You’ll need to do better than that, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Unless you want to be my next segment.”

Then the light flicked on again.

“And now, our caller of the night…”

His voice didn’t falter. His rhythm didn’t stop.

You were going to die like this.

You hoped you would.

[fixated-cookies]

I don't rly know if u like writing about this but I'm dying for hollyberry x fem reader like I need her to scissor me good 💔

our fem queen doesn't get enough recognition

omg guess whos back??

The party was already dizzying—music, lights, and the sugar-rich hum of royal laughter echoing off gold-leafed walls. You hadn’t meant to stand out. You’d kept to the edges of the ballroom, sipping your berry spritzer in a gown that hugged just enough, hoping to enjoy the feast without drawing attention.

But Hollyberry Cookie had seen you. You noticed it the moment her eyes landed on yours. One heartbeat. Two.

Then her grin cracked wide like the surface of a fruit bursting from ripeness.

There was something different about her tonight. Louder, looser. The flush on her cheeks was deeper than usual, and the way her hand clutched that half-finished goblet of crimson wine… you knew before she said a word.

She was drunk on berry juice. Drunk—and staring at you like you were the dessert course she’d been waiting for.

You took a step back. Her eyes narrowed.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”

You stiffened. She was already in front of you—how had she crossed the room so fast? Her body was warm and broad, dressed in ceremonial armor lined with velvet, the scent of wine and roasted nuts still clinging to her collar.

“I—uh—Hollyberry, the feast’s still—”

“Boring,” she cut in. Her grin grew sharp. “Too much talking. Not enough tasting.”

But Hollyberry Cookie had seen you.

You noticed it the moment her eyes landed on yours. One heartbeat. Two.

Then her grin cracked wide like the surface of a fruit bursting from ripeness.

There was something different about her tonight. Louder, looser. The flush on her cheeks was deeper than usual, and the way her hand clutched that half-finished goblet of crimson wine… you knew before she said a word.

She was drunk on berry juice. Drunk—and staring at you like you were the dessert course she’d been waiting for.

You took a step back. Her eyes narrowed.

You stiffened. She was already in front of you—how had she crossed the room so fast? Her body was warm and broad, dressed in ceremonial armor lined with velvet, the scent of wine and roasted nuts still clinging to her collar.

“I—uh—Hollyberry, the feast’s still—”

Your cheeks burned.

“H-Holly—”

“You wore that dress on purpose,” she purred, ducking down just a little, her voice a deep purr near your ear. “Tight in all the right places. Swaying those little hips. And you thought I wouldn’t notice?”

You stammered. She laughed.

Before you could blink, her hand—big, calloused, so strong—wrapped around your waist and lifted you. With a yelp, your feet left the floor, your glass nearly toppling from your fingers.

“H-Hey!” you squeaked.

“Oh hush,” she chuckled. “You’ve been making eyes at me all night. It’s only fair I take a bite.”

You gasped. “I haven’t!”

But your voice cracked a little. You had. Just once. Maybe twice. She looked so powerful when she laughed like that, drink staining her lip, crown a little crooked. It wasn’t your fault.

She carried you down a hallway behind the banquet tables, weaving between servants and startled guards, until finally—finally—she kicked open a side door with the force of a war cry.

A private room. Quiet. Dim. Sealed off from the noise.

She set you down. You wobbled. Her arms didn’t leave your waist.

Your heart pounded.

She leaned down, brushing her nose to yours, voice low and rumbling.

“Now, little berry,” she murmured, “you’re going to let me make a mess of you.” Your back hit the velvet lounge with a bounce, your breath leaving in a squeak as Hollyberry’s weight hovered above you. The heat from her thighs pinned yours apart as easily as cracking open a ripe pomegranate. You tried to scoot back—half shy, half overwhelmed—but her arm slung behind your knees and tugged you down until your hips pressed flush to hers.

“No more hiding, sweet one,” she purred, one thick finger stroking the side of your trembling thigh. “You knew what this dress would do to me. Wearing something this tight, this soft? With frills like whipped cream along the hem? Naughty little minx.”

“Holly—wait, we shouldn’t—”

She tutted, cupping your chin. You think anyone back there doesn’t know what I’m doing with you right now? Hah! Let them wonder. Let them burn.”

You let out a gasp as she grasped your dress, hiking the fabric up your thighs with practiced force. Her fingers hooked under your undergarments, dragging them down slow—too slow—until the air kissed the wetness between your legs. Her smirk grew downright predatory.

“Just as I thought.” She leaned in, her voice thick like honey. “Dripping and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

You whimpered.

And then her thigh slid forward—no, not her thigh, her whole body shifted, and the plush, powerful heat of her sex aligned with yours. Bare. Heated. Soaked.

You froze. She exhaled.

Then she began to grind.

The first motion was slow, calculated. The firm drag of her pussy against yours was obscene. Wet, noisy, delicious friction, your sensitive clit brushing hers again and again as she set the rhythm. Her armor clanked lightly behind her, but her core was soft, hot, slick with need. Her breath hitched, but her grin never wavered.

“Oh—gods—” you gasped, your body twitching.

“Yesss, there it is,” she moaned, her hips rutting just a little harder. “Let me feel you, little one. Let me make you sing.”

You whined, your voice high and sweet, just the way she loved. Your hips bucked up desperately, trying to match her pace, but she was stronger, more in control. She guided the grind, her thighs forcing yours open wider, her body pressing down until you were trembling with every roll of her hips.

The sound was nearly pornographic—wet, sticky, soft gasps and needy friction, the slap and glide of desperate desire.

You grabbed at her shoulders, barely able to hold on.

You’re so good like this,” she groaned, looking down over you. “So soft, so wet, so mine. You were made to be ruined beneath me.”

You cried out, your whole body arching—shocked as the orgasm ripped through you like a wave. You clung to her, mouth open, voice caught in your throat as pleasure wracked you, your pussy spasming against hers.

Hollyberry shuddered, her own release chasing yours in a strangled, breathless moan. She rutted harder, desperate, chasing every last jolt of ecstasy until you were both a trembling, soaked mess.

Then—finally—she collapsed forward, panting.

Silence bloomed. Just your breaths. Your sweat. The twitch of her thigh against your own.

She kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips.

“Hah…” she chuckled lowly. “We’ll be late to dessert.”

You snorted weakly.

And still, neither of you moved. Not yet.

---

ughhh ive been gone for so long hahaha, also i think this may be the last time i color dialogue, its sooo time consuming!!! especially when its custom

[fixated-cookies]

Milk, Vanilla, and The Witches Pit.

Pairing: Witch!Reader x Shadow Milk Cookie, Witch!Reader x Pure Vanilla Cookie, (past) Witch!Reader x Burning Spice Cookie Word Count: ~2k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Tentacle kink, soft dubcon elements (aphrodisiac influence), magical manipulation, possessive behavior, emotional breakdowns, light worship kink, humiliation (non-cruel), voyeurism, orgasm denial, forced arousal, non-canon worldbuilding (eldritch witch magic, enchanted maze, sacred ritual spaces), power imbalance, Pure Vanilla corruption, oral fixation,, dom!reader dynamic, emotionally compromised cookies, pure vanilla point of view, burning spice kinda mentioned hahaha

part one

COMISSION

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

At first, it was only whispers. Unconfirmed, scattered, and strangely poetic.

A baker passing through the Vanilla Kingdom had spoken of a scent he couldn’t place—berries steeped in lust, he’d said, half-joking, eyes twitching. Another Cookie from the outskirts claimed they saw the stars shift over the southern hills, as if pulled down toward something hungry.

And then there were the dreams.

He’d received three letters in as many days. Each from a healer he trusted. Each confessing the same thing: they woke gasping, wet between the thighs or legs, after visions of a throne carved from mouths. They wrote with trembling hands. They asked if he felt it too.

He hadn’t. Not until today.

Pure Vanilla stood in the study of his sanctum, sunlight curling softly across the glasswork. A low thrum echoed at the base of his skull—magic, old and unclean, threading its way through the air like perfume from a broken bottle.

He pressed his fingers to his Soul Jam.

Something has awakened. Not evil. Not quite. But… wrong. Beautifully, dangerously wrong.

By dusk, he had already departed. No fanfare. No speech. Just a quiet command for the court to carry on and not follow.

The land of Beast Yeast was thick with mist by the time he arrived. And there—where once lay scorched earth and memory—stood a castle that should not be.

It rose like a mirage built from lust and grief: obsidian stone slick with dew, towers shaped like talons, rivers that shimmered red as pomegranate wine.

And something else.

The maze.

It stretched from the castle gates like a serpent’s jaw, rows upon rows of blackened rosebushes twisted into arches and curves. The petals gleamed wet, as if sweating in anticipation. The thorns pulsed.

Pure Vanilla stepped forward slowly, quietly. His robes trailed behind him, a hush in the overgrown silence. The closer he came, the louder the maze breathed.

That’s when he saw him.

Shadow Milk Cookie.

Standing before the mouth of the maze, dressed in ceremonial black and sapphire. He looked... different. Cleaner, almost reverent. His coattails had been brushed and pressed. His crown-jester hat removed, tucked under one arm like a sacred offering. In his arms: boxes. Dozens of them, wrapped with trembling care.

He was checking his reflection in a glinting goblet. Wiping sweat from his upper lip. Adjusting the cuff of his left sleeve. Breathing hard. Like someone preparing for a confession.

Then—

He smiled.

A grin more sincere than any Pure Vanilla had seen.

And then… he bolted.

Straight into the maze.

No theatrics. No backward glance. Just his silhouette swallowed by the red-black roses and the twisting mist.

And Pure Vanilla—heart tight, Soul Jam humming uneasily—followed.

Because the rumors were true.

Because something had returned to Earthbread.

And it had called him. The moment Pure Vanilla stepped past the first arch of thorns, the air shifted. It wasn’t sudden. No sharp burst or slam of magic—just a slow, insidious tilt. Like the floor of the world had been set on a slope and his balance hadn’t caught up. The scent hit first. Not the saccharine rot of rotting fruit, but something deeper. Thicker. Heavier than air had any right to be. A haze that clung to his lungs with every breath, sweet as nectar and just as dangerous. He tried to purify it on instinct, a soft glow emanating from his Soul Jam. But the mist simply curled around the light—mocking, amused—and whispered back.

The roses pulsed as he passed. Not just the petals—the stems, the thorns, the roots. Like they were watching. Like they knew he didn’t belong. Yet nothing reached for him. Not yet.

He walked in silence at first. Left, right, straight. The maze wound in spirals, designed by a hand not meant to obey geometry. Every path looked the same. Red and black. Red and black. But the deeper he went, the warmer it became. Not oppressive heat, but something more bodily. Wet warmth. Breathing warmth. Like the inside of something living.

And then the whispers began.

Not words, not yet. Just sounds. Breaths that weren’t his. Laughter without mouths. Echoes of sighs. A voice he thought he recognized—just at the edge of memory—moaning faintly into the velvet air.

He kept walking.

The gift boxes Shadow Milk had carried appeared along the trail like breadcrumbs. One by one, discarded. A ribbon tangled in a rose. A box crushed by what looked like trembling hands. A silk handkerchief spotted with something viscous and glimmering faintly under the mist. The deeper he went, the more disarray he found. Until finally he heard it—not a whisper, not an echo—but a sound so real and close it stopped his heart mid-beat.

A sob.

Choked and wet. Followed by a moan.

His steps faltered. Not from fear. From confusion. The mist was thicker now. And it did something to him. His thoughts grew slower. His body… warmer. His clothes clung too tightly. His fingers twitched, grasping at the staff he barely remembered drawing. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, the flower ornament blooming without light. The air tasted like sugar and want.

A voice broke through the haze, soft and low, drawn out like a sigh at the end of a prayer.

“You made it…”

He turned. No one. Just the roses breathing.

Another sound. A wet one.

Something was happening up ahead. Something rhythmic. Deliberate.

Pure Vanilla kept moving.

The last arch gave way to open air. Not light. There was no sun here—only the low thrum of magic humming like a heartbeat beneath velvet clouds. The courtyard stretched wide and obscene. Petals littered the slick stone, red and black, glistening with dew. Obsidian statues rose in rings around the center—mouthless angels, weeping roses, serpents wrapped around limbs locked in ecstasy.

And in the center—

A throne made of nothing but silk and sin.

He saw them before they saw him.

Shadow Milk Cookie was on his knees. His arms hung limp at his sides, palms twitching against the stone. His mouth was full—latched to the breast of a stranger, lips slick, tongue greedy. His eyes were rolled back, one of the hidden ones in his hair blinking in delirious rhythm with every suck. His body convulsed slightly as her hand jerked his cock in smooth, precise motions—each one pulling a cry from him that echoed off the rose-drenched walls.

The gifts lay scattered at her feet. Torn ribbons. Crushed boxes. The effort of devotion trampled beneath lust.

She looked down at him with a gaze too calm, too cold. The Witch had not changed. She didn’t have to.

Pure Vanilla did not speak. Could not. The tentacles writhed behind her—some brushing across Shadow Milk’s thighs, others coiling lazily near her lap. The air reeked of sex and magic. It curled in his lungs like incense lit on a grave.

Then her eyes flicked up.

Saw him.

The air did not change.

Shadow Milk whimpered at her chest. She spoke to neither of them.

Not yet.

She simply let it continue.

Her thumb slid over the head of Shadow Milk’s cock just as her nipple left his mouth with a pop. He cried out—high and pretty—and spilled into her hand with a force that knocked his head back. His hips jerked once, twice, his thighs trembling. The orgasm tore through him like prophecy, and she held him steady through every shudder.

Only when he stilled did she finally speak.

“Watching is not a crime.”

Her voice cut through the haze like a slow knife.

Pure Vanilla flinched.

A single tentacle slid toward him across the stone. Unhurried. Confident.

“You came for truth, didn’t you?” she asked, gently brushing Shadow Milk’s hair back. “You always did prefer it clean.”

The tentacle curled around Pure Vanilla’s ankle.

He moved to resist—then didn’t. His fingers trembled.

Another tendril coiled at his waist.

She turned her head slightly—one breast still wet with Shadow Milk’s spit, her fingers stained with seed—and beckoned him with a smile that was not kind.

“Come closer,” she said. “Let me show you what devotion looks like.” The moment the tentacle coiled around his thigh, Pure Vanilla’s breath hitched. He tried to step back. He didn’t. Couldn’t. His limbs felt heavy—clouded—not with fear but with warmth. A dangerous warmth. The kind that started low, between the legs, and spread outward like molasses poured too slow. The aphrodisiac mist wasn’t thick here—it was concentrated. Refined. Meant to soften even the hardest conviction.

He blinked, and the throne felt closer. Another tendril hooked under his arm. Velvet against his wrist. A subtle tug. He didn’t resist.

Not because he wanted this. But because his body had forgotten the word no.

Shadow Milk whimpered beside the Witch’s leg, cheek pressed against her thigh, his spent cock twitching, lips still parted around phantom pleasure. He didn’t even lift his head when Pure Vanilla was dragged across the marble.

“You look tired,” she said sweetly. Her fingers twitched, and more tentacles came.

Pure Vanilla gasped as silk bound his ankles. Not cruelly. Not tightly. Just enough to hold. Enough to part him. His robe bunched at his waist. He could feel the air on his thighs.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

She tilted her head—and then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Another figure. At the edge of the circle.

Slumped forward, mouth gagged by some glowing spell-silk. Body flushed and gleaming with sweat. Muscles trembling with denied release. Crimson marks bloomed along his chest, his arms, his throat—where tentacles had kissed and left their claim.

His eyes were glazed.

He did not look at Pure Vanilla.

He only thrust weakly into the air, hips grinding against nothing, rutting against a pleasure just out of reach. A ruined shell of a warrior. His hair was different. His expression empty.

Pure Vanilla didn’t recognize him.

Not as Burning Spice Cookie.

Not as anyone.

Just another sinner in the altar’s glow.

He turned back to the Witch—

And her hand touched his chest.

Light bloomed from her palm—not burning, not blinding. Inviting.

It bled through the fabric of his robes like oil through lace. His Soul Jam flickered—once, twice—and then dimmed.

She smiled.

“You can leave,” she whispered, voice soft as syrup. “You always could. But you haven’t.”

A tentacle brushed his thigh. He trembled.

Her lips leaned to his ear.

“So let me ask, little light... what are you really here for?”

And then her fingers drifted lower.

The first moan that left Pure Vanilla’s lips wasn’t his.

It slipped from his throat like it belonged to someone else—soft, breathless, humiliated. Her fingers had only grazed the edge of his Soul Jam, and still his cock stirred, twitching against the air, his thighs tensing in shame. The tentacles didn’t restrain him, not tightly. They only held, cradling his body like something precious. Like something offered.

His breath trembled. His vision swam. His crown sat crooked on his head.

“Ohhh…” came a voice. Lazy. Liquid. Mocking.

Shadow Milk stirred from his place beside the Witch, one eye opening beneath his tangled bangs. He looked ruined, dazed, lips still red from suckling. But he grinned through it. Theatrical. Drenched in bliss and spite.

“You’re quite the picture, mmm,” he murmured, voice laced with cracked glee. “Our dear beacon, all fogged up and twitching. Tsk, tsk… Is this what it takes to peel back those holy folds?”

“Quiet,” Pure Vanilla rasped.

But his voice was thin. Barely present.

Shadow Milk only laughed—a low, fractured chuckle that dissolved into a whimper. “Still playing saint, even while your thighs tremble? My, my. You’ve missed quite the show.”

A tentacle slid along Pure Vanilla’s inner thigh. He bit back a gasp, his head tipping back. The mist licked at his lips, syrup-sweet, heady. His cock throbbed now—shamelessly.

The Witch watched.

She didn’t touch him again. Not yet. She let him unravel.

Shadow Milk crawled closer—not with the grace of a predator, but the limp, sensuous drift of someone who had given in. His fingers brushed the edge of Pure Vanilla’s robe, gaze half-lidded.

“You came here for answers,” he whispered. “But I think you just wanted permission.”

“Permission…?”

“To fall.”

He chuckled again. It cracked in the middle.

“Don’t worry. I did too.”

Pure Vanilla’s breath hitched. A tentacle brushed his tip—barely. He gasped, whole body twitching, stars popping behind his eyes.

“I… I won’t,” he hissed, but his hips lifted of their own accord, chasing the contact. “I can’t.”

“You already are,” Shadow Milk said sweetly, resting his cheek against Pure Vanilla’s thigh. “And you look so pretty doing it.”

The Witch leaned forward, her lips just inches from Pure Vanilla’s jaw. Her breath was cool, her eyes deep. Not cruel. Not kind.

Just waiting. He tried to hold it in.

Even with her mouth near his ear, even as the tentacle curled around the base of his cock like a gentle promise, even as Shadow Milk suckled at his throat with lips still wet from the Witch’s breast—he tried.

He did.

But the pleasure didn't beg for entrance. It slid in—sweet and low, like fog under a locked door. Her magic didn't command him. It coaxed. Her fingers didn’t tear at his robes. They simply pressed, so lightly over his Soul Jam that the echo of it ricocheted through his spine like a lover’s sigh.

"You're trembling," she whispered.

“I know…”

"You don't want to leave."

“I… can’t.”

"You never did."

Pure Vanilla’s knees buckled. He would have fallen had the altar not already cradled him, held him in its velvet grasp. His thighs parted without a word. His cock leaked shamelessly against his belly. Every twitch, every breath was a confession.

Shadow Milk kissed his collarbone. “You taste like surrender,” he crooned.

The Witch watched. Silent. Steady.

Then, she moved—just a little. Her hand slid between his legs, not greedy, not fast. The tentacles wrapped around his hips, lifted him just enough to tilt his body forward, exposed and open. Her touch was like fire wrapped in silk.

Even though

He came undone like a vow broken at last.

Cum play

Shadow Milk clung to his side, pressing kisses to his temple, his jaw, his lips. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “So good like this…”

The Witch didn’t speak.

She simply cupped his face.

And he—soft, ruined, light dimmed but not gone—nuzzled into her palm.

He didn’t ask what came next.

He didn’t want to know.

He was no longer a visitor.

He had entered.

And the maze… would never let him leave.

[fixated-cookies]

BUILDING OFF OF ANONS QUESTION : what would readers fragment represent? shadow milk has the light of deceit, pure vanilla has the light of truth... all of them have to make up the virtue of 'knowledge', so what would readers virtue be? perception? wisdom? feed me & the prev anon... pls.. i (we) beg... I LOVED THE FIC BTW KJNAC KJNV DOWCJND IT WAS SO GOOOOOD

Hmmm their sliver of souljam would represent the light of curiosity

The yearning delicate feeling of wanting to know. It's not factual like Truth or an illusion like Deceit. It's moreorso the pull between them.

Rather unpredictable, the reason why kids ask "why" a thousand times and why scholars end up destroying themselves trying to find answers they are better off not knowing. (Cough cough, white lily)

Though calling it the light of curiosity rather implies it's something larger, like the souljams pure vanilla and shadow milk wield. If we were to get more poetic, it would be better off as the Flicker of Wonder.

It's such a small shard it fits in a necklace, you can barely call it a souljam of their own.

[fixated-cookies]

WAUGHHH YOUR LATEST FIC 'THE LAST FRAGMENT' ONE IS SO GOOD IM EATING IT ALL UP AND LICKING THE CRUMBS OFF THE PLATE FOR REAL 😩😩

I'm such a whore for lore tho, will you ever elaborate about the hidden soul jam thingy on the reader because i'm a bit confused hhh

OKOKOOKOKOK soooo this is going to be short but basically I just thought of a plot of what if it wasn't only pure vanilla who inherited shadow milks souljam?

In game, it's started that all the ancient heroes are half a cookie, as they only have half of the power of their respective souljam. It's the reason why the beast wanted their souljams back, not only did it belong to them originally, but also it would complete them and gain their full power back

With shadow milk and pure vanilla it's easy to think of them as 50/50

But if we were to have reader in the mix It would make sense for it to be 50/40/10

The 10 being readers sliver of souljam being on their necklace. Remember, the souljam originally belonged to shadow milk cookie, or the fount of knowledge. I like to think that's why shadow milk is more possessive over reader rather than pure vanilla. Which is to be given buts its much worse, considering in this AU they're both considered yandere. It's because reader's sliver of souljam is more directly connected to shadow milks souljam rather than transformed into the light of truth like pure vanilla's.

Both of them are very in love with them of course, don't mistake that sliver of souljam means pure vanilla also wouldn't go to an extreme just because their more connected to shadow milk.

we can see how he can get, especially in-game. He's kinda crazy fr.