again and again and again he's tried to get underneath her dough. it's a petty form of vengeance for the situation she's trapped them in — and misery does so love its company, does it not? unfortunately, his darling little student has proven more difficult to crack than most. she may fracture, she may chip, but she never quite breaks as prettily as he wants her to. yet even the sturdiest boulders erode eventually; white lily's composure is no exception, and shadow milk has nothing but time to kill. he'll keep pushing her until she shatters — and her friends finally turning on her has given him a helpful pinch of salt to scrub into the developing wound.
and it seems like his efforts have finally bore fruit! oh, she's angry-angry, isn't she? naturally, the jester is delighted with this turn of events, greeting the furious cookie with an unapologetic smile. ( what is she going to do? shadow milk knows she can't hurt him. ) he doesn't speak, doesn't recoil at her advance — he even willingly leans his face into her touch, like the obedient little beast he most certainly isn't. schadenfreude, sweet schadenfreude; a personal favorite. it's only when white lily flips the script around on him that shadow milk's amusement turns to ash in his mouth.
❝ ... ❞ a sound vibrates in his chest — a clicking, stuttering thing too high pitched to qualify as a growl, yet conveys a feeling of aggression nonetheless. ❝ you dare... ❞ you dare use THAT name? he tears out of her hold, floating back a ways to put some distance between them. the beast's tentacles stretch to an impossible length, an impenetrable shadow that slowly creeps across the room like a puddle of spilled ink. his eyes peer out, a hundred hateful pinpricks of blue all glaring directly at the cookie with the audacity to turn such a blasphemous question on HIM. suddenly, this is no longer a fun game about testing just how far he can push his limits — suddenly, he wants to sink his teeth into her throat like the beast that he is and it's only that stupid binding magic keeping his jaw locked in place.
❝ regrets... ❞ he doesn't want to hurt them; it's a sentiment they don't seem to share. liar, they say, hurling words and stones alike. ( he doesn't know which hurts more. ) they grip him hard enough to leave bruises on his dough, constellations of fingertips he'll later gaze upon with contempt. he's not a liar, not a fake — he's always tried to do right by them, but his intentions, his truth don't matter. the truth is the loudest voice in the room and his cries for help were drowned out a very long time ago. ❝ my regrets? ❞ and maybe he does deserve this. maybe he is a fraud. it's his own fault for crumbling beneath the pressure. he's fragile; emotional. he knows the others see it — weakness festering inside of him, an incurable disease they can only politely avert their gaze from as it gradually consumes him whole. if he wasn't such a failure, would mother come save him? ❝ you think i have regrets? ❞ metal bites into his neck. he feels it; every cold millimeter as it slides through his dough. in that split-second where the jam floods his throat, the fount of knowledge exchanges a look with the crowd — dawning horror as they all realize something divinely created can be slain so casually. he regrets being made.
❝ the only thing i regret, ❞ shadow milk snarls, ❝ is ever being naive enough to put my faith in other cookies. you would do well to learn from your teacher. ❞ her friends are no different.
@soulgathered &&. from here.
