Pure Vanilla tells himself that. His mind screams and yells, screeches and punches at the walls of his skull.

It's wrong. It doesn't feel right. It shouldn't.

Yet it does.

He just wants to buck his hips upwards, like a mindless animal wanting to mate, nothing else. The heat burning in his gut is excruciatingly painful, he just wants, needs the sweet relief that is the boiling hot interior of the cunt seated on his cock.

He keeps reminding himself of who is the one pining him down, forcing him to take it, to give and to be used as mere toy. Shadow Milk's hungry eyes are almost crazed, and his mouth weeps, face flushed a deep, deep blue.

"Ah.. Oh, Nilly..." Up and down, Pure Vanilla, no, Truthless Recluse could feel with the tip of his cock the sweet little cervix of the body using him. He wonders if it hurts, he doesn't care, and hopes it does.

Dirty, filthy and disgusting. Shadow Milk is all that and more, sitting roughly onto his lap and grinding his engorged clit onto the hermit's groin, his cock plunged deep into him and threatening to spill. Maybe that's what he wishes, what he's saying with the mantra of "more" 's and the shaking of his thighs slick with arousal.

Truthless Recluse is nothing. Useless, made to please and born to die.

He wants to crumble deep inside Shadow Milk's body and force him to take what remains. Forcing him to break just like he did.

His hands find scarred wrists and grabs. Violent.

The beast yelps, then smiles.

Truthless Recluse feels anger, and the overwhelming need to destroy, a sadness so deep he wants to dig fingers in his own eyes and tear down till his face is no more than a mangled mess, to scream. And scream, and scream again as he reverses the position they were in, shoving Shadow Milk on the bed, he forced to spread his legs as not to hurt himself.

Tanned hands find his neck, and squeeze. Pulse under his thumb, prettiest expression on a flushed drooly face. Was he scared?

Die.

The control the hermit suddenly had made him squirm.

Cock shoved against the little entrance to the jester's womb, rough, almost forcing itself inside if the anatomy allowed it. He let's out a breathe he didn't know he was holding, woobly and shivery as he collapses between the neck and shoulder, almost hyperventilating as he resumes the fucking, brutal, desperate, chasing his own high, all with Shadow Milk's neck in a firm hold.

He wonders if a monster like him has even the need to breathe.

Teary, snotty, drool weeping to his chin, almost docile as he can't speak and ruin it all. Beautiful, perfect.

Truthless Recluse wishes he was always like this. Maybe he should choke him out, damage his vocal chords beyond repair, how sweet and pretty of a monster he would be then. Perfect. Perfect. Silent.

Skin against skin and arousal against pain, like everything mixing together, merging in a mess of cacophony of screaming and choked cries. While he truly couldn't see the way Shadow Milk's face twisted in pain as the deepest of his intimacy was violated, the hermit knew he was smiling.

A sickening thing.

Love.

Chasing an high that's never-ending, that can never satisfy, even in death.

The rape of the mind, the destruction of a body, breaking into pieces, together. Again, forever, as they will be.

Is this truly what he is?