The silence of the night was almost painful, irritating, but not enough to be. Something that truly wasn’t there buzzing in his ears, a numbing sensation prickling at his eardrums like tiny needles, as if bugs were attempting to shove their way in and forever remain.

An aching loneliness hugged Truthless Recluse’s body like the most depressing blanket, made of silk, made of gold. Precious, unwanted. At the same time the only thing that was bearable between the walls of The Spire of Deceit. It always noisy, always full, always empty, forever a wavering chaos of fake things. Hushed voices and the light tapping of tiny feet all over the place, a pretense of truth in the amidst of lies. The Recluse wonders if the rabbits are sleeping nicely tonight, their fur combed to near perfection by him, as per Shadow Milk’s order. He scoffed softly and turned to the other side, squeezing his eyes together and chasing sleep.

How many days has it been? How many nights? Months? An infinite repetition of an unasked routine, looking at marionettes that looked happier than he ever did since being trapped here despite being completely soulless, dancing around, a mere decoration of loneliness.

There’s no use, no purpose on even simply thinking about escaping. Other than his room being at the very top of the tower, once out, what could he even do? Running back home, into the arms of worried companions he will lie to and the unavoidable pain of war. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. The shame too much to bear, the unwillingness of chasing what he once believed in made home too deep into his dough.

This aching loneliness seemed lovelier than believing again.

He can’t sleep.

The Recluse can turn over only so much, the stiffness in his neck souring his mood and ruining his chances to fall asleep even more. He groans, hand nearly slapping his own face out of frustration. He tried everything, from kicking sheets off his body and covering himself back again, to drown himself into the pillow, hoping to pass out and sleep, to maybe never wake up again.

Tired and desperate he sits at the edge of the bed, milky eyes fixed at the nothingness of the dark. A tiny, galling giggle breaks his most hated silence, with an even more hateful sound.

“Oh, my Recluse,” Annoying, incessant, loud, nothing in front of him. “can’t sleep? Is something bothering that empty head of yours?”

Like the most annoying fly, Shadow Milk twirls around him, The Recluse’s eyes barely making an effort to follow the moving body finally making an appearance in blurry shapes. The Recluse is glad to be nearly blind, as the only view of the infuriating grin that was surely painted on The Beast’s face would aggravated him horribly. He does not answer, nor makes an attempt to pry his mouth for one.

Shadow Milk didn’t need to sleep. Oh, how wonderful would it be if he did. Unfortunately that was something too lowly for someone as great and perfect as he. The Beast of Deceit didn’t need anything that weak, useless cookies need instead.

That includes basic respect.

An hand in his unkept hair made The Recluse frown slightly, just enough for Shadow Milk to notice and tightnens his grasp on the soft scalp, a wide smile painted on his face as he brushed strands of blond hair away. The sweet smell of milk and blueberries aggravated his headache just a tinge more.

“Aa.. Why won’t you talk to me? Don’t you know how rude it is to not answer me, who is such a nice host?”

“Why are you here?” Weary, he slapped away the other’s hand, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to give a warning, whatever it may be. The Beast feigned offense, floating a few inches above him, and stretching like a cat would.

“There’s nothing to do at this hour! I wanted to see how my favorite doll is doing, and maybe, he would be awake, you know? To entertain me.” Another twirl. “I was right!”

Truthless Recluse scoffs, more than aware that he is right. He always is, and how wouldn’t he? Eyes of his all over the place, always watching and observing, knowing everything, even knowledgeable of the home of a singular spider in a stray corner, wherever it may be. The giddy expressions of the eyes looming in The Beast’s hair irritate him to no end.

“And at this hour of the night I would like to rest.”

“…How boring!” Shadow Milk lets itself fall on the bed with the softest _thump_, limbs sprawled like a ragdoll’s, staring at the ceiling like what The Recluse said hurt the deepest of his heart. Dramatic, the actor in him weeps softly at the rejection. Shadow Milk hums.

“You’re so boring, doll. Why rest when you can do so many things in the extra hours of the night? You can’t sleep, anyway.” Lightly, he mocks him, hand to his chest.

The Recluse sighs, “What do you even do when everyone is asleep?”

“Why do you want to know? Wanna join?” Nothing, probably. Perhaps playing by itself, or sewing new, soft plush toys to place around the spire, maybe thinking new ways to torment The Recluse. He looks at his own lap, expecting a new chess game with insane rules the following days.

Truthless Recluse refuses. The Beast coos, “Mmh, you never want to play with me. It’s a pain, really, I have so many games we could play together!” his body turns so that he’s resting on his belly, looking at the other’s back, covered by black night robes and the remains of dirt from previous nights, where the lonely rabbits would paw at him searching for attention.

“Do you?” The Recluse never looks at him, as if scared. His voice never wavers, however. Shadow Milks licks tiny fangs, humming softly.

“Mnh! How would I, the most wonderful of entertainers, not know enough games to keep my audience hooked?”

“I guess that’s true.” An audience made of soulless dolls, grinning ear to ear and giggling at what is deep unhappiness, The Recluse seated between them before. Shadow Milk’s eyes squint softly in delight. Horribly perfect, something to ignore and never remember. The Recluse doesn’t look, painfully aware of the giddy expression on The Beast’s face, and the fingers now tracing circles on his back, on the dirty nightwear that he was too lazy to wash. Like a rabbit himself, as if asking for him to look at his infuriatingly joyful face.

Silence fell on them, Truthless Recluse’s body slumped out of tiredness, bare feet on the cold floor shuffling against one another in search for warmth, the feeling of clawed fingers tracing his shoulder blades through fabric something that he would consider calming, nearly tender, if not for the awareness of who owned them. Despite it, he said nothing, letting The Beast toy with the feeling of clothed dough.

The Recluse can’t complain, and won’t.

Refusing companionship in the amidst of the lonely spire was something he could not bring himself to do, the irritation and anger always became background noise, forever buzzing, forever there, the result of cruelty and the need of looking for hands to hold for at least a moment. He can count on one hand the times he found himself interwining fingers with The Beast, on the bed, doing or saying nothing at all, staring at ceiling, relishing in the comfort of having someone to share a bed with, the imitation of tenderness and love once forced upon him, now that he pursues as well when solitude became too much. He supposes tonight was one of those times as well.

He finally turns, looking at the man on his bed. For all the failing of his vision and the blurriness of the shape of him, he knew that Shadow Milk’s smile faltered long ago, something that was nearly unreadable for the rest, a reflection in a mirror for The Recluse: a deep sorrow, one without end, hidden in the deepest crevices of what would be the heart, what should be, Truthless Recluse isn’t sure if they both have one at this point and time. It beats, yet it’s as if it does not exist anymore, without certain proof but no questions.

Something that isn’t love fills his chest.

His hand reaches for The Beast’s hair, and pushes it away from its face, imitating what it did to him earlier. He caresses soft dough, and finds between blurry shapes two azure ponds looking up at him just as Shadow Milk’s hands grasps his own. He’s cold, he always is.

Wordlessly, Shadow Milk lets himself sink into the mattress, cheek squished on it, attempting to bring The Recluse with him by grabbing and tugging at his clothing. Selfish, constantly thinking about his own needs, his wants and wishes, never asking, his hands a disregard of others, sinful and stained, and The Recluse became exactly how he wants, letting himself be dragged into the soft, welcoming tenderness of the bed, eye to eye with the one that sank clawed fingers so deep inside his viscera that completely destroyed whatever could be considered salvageable. Truthless Recluse can feel Shadow Milk’s warm breath grazing his dough, a sign of life despite the perpetual coldness of his body.

Now less vague, Shadow Milk’s eyes are like opaque pieces of glass, devoid of everything that could be considered pure, yet there was something akin to virginal. An untouched kind of sin. Something in him wanted to prod at it, to tear it open and destroy the only thing that made The Beast unsullied. Something like it did not deserve that kind of privilege.

Frozen fingers grasp his hand again, bringing it to its face, like asking for the attention of a lover that is not there and never will be. The Recluse allows it, rubbing a warm finger into the full cheek of the beast. Comforting, ridiculous. Always ridiculous. Never once has it felt like something that should happen, like the most moronic of situations that could only happen under duress, yet The Recluse is not obliged to do this. The buzzing of anger is numb beneath his dough. The thumb on the other’s cheek sinks roughly, almost causing pain, and Shadow Milk smiles softly, lips deformed under pressure.

“Are you going to finally hurt me?” He asks, voice an antithesis of the loud and theatrical sounds he so much loves to perform.

“No.”

“Kiss me then.” Treat me gently, hurt me by giving what I do not deserve.

It did not need to be repeated, The Recluse’s warm mouth assaulted Shadow Milk’s own with fervor, teeth clashing with teeth, tongue shoving itself between prying lips, silencing any sound the beast could have wanted to emit. Dirty, filthy, hand grasping the beast’s cheek tightly, as if worried it might change its mind and flee from the kiss. He can feel Shadow Milk’s sharp teeth grazing against the delicate flesh of his tongue, and the thought of them drawing blood feels almost exhilarating, to spit red into the beast’s mouth, to see his fucked out expression after being kissed like breathing isn’t needed to live, blood dripping down the chin.

Shadow Milk’s body unmoving if not for the soft, whimpering breaths that shake his ribcage just as softly, an empty smile when The Recluse stops devouring his lips, licking the spit clean from the bottom lip to just under his nose, messily, granting the mellowest of pecks in the center of his lips when finished. Truthless Recluse’s hand keep grasping the beast’s jaw just as tightly. There’s something almost childish in the way he looks into the beast’s eyes, expectant, wishful, not really there, like looking at a really pretty toy in a store.

The Recluse let his grip relax, bringing his hand towards the other’s, interwining cold and warmth.

One of those nights, past cruelty hugging his lungs, lamb shoving its head right into the wolf’s giddy open mouth, fangs drawing blood. This time, however, the wolf decided to finally snap its jaws shut.

The beast brings the innocently interwined fingers on its small, plush chest, its gaze aimless. The Recluse’s breath stops for a second. The spit still wet on his chin feels colder, irritation numb under his dough attempts to crawl out of his chest, the vacant look in Shadow Milk’s eyes an invitation for something greater, less innocent, to destroy the sweetest kind of purity. If the innocence he believed was there in reality was something false, it did not matter in the slightest.

“Don’t hold my hand tonight.”

Teeth graze the lamb’s frail neck, and The Recluse’s hand shoves itself in between Shadow Milk’s thighs, heated sweet spot suilling his fingers, the beast’s smile bigger as a stutter of its hips make it moan softly. Digits touch and prod, the thin fabric covering the other’s intimacy becoming wetter by the second, he can fell under his finger pads the little nub hardening, its folds moving with the awkward pressure of his hand, an attempt to reach the opening through clothing. The Recluse is not looking at the beast anymore, milky eyes fixed between their bodies where his hand moves insistent.

Almost nervous, something lodged in his throat but unable to stop himself from indulging into the honey sweet body in front of him. In the lonely tower no one will be able to save him, especially if his throat is squeezed with insistence, silencing him forever, granting him the eternal sleep he so much longs for.

Shadow Milk’s thumbs meet each other on his windpipe, The Recluse doesn’t know when he got on top of him, wet crotch on top of his own, eyes vacant staring down at him, as if he was nothing but a parasite, deserving of death, of being squeezed until viscera and malice erupted. And In a way, he did, he was, the anger and excitment boiling in his gut proof of it. The beast’s grip never tightened, fingers on his throat a threat he knows he means. The Recluse wonders if the dolls are looking at them right now, are they laughing at his own misery?

“I could just kill you if I wanted.” The Recluse’s throat is prod at, softly, to touch something easy to break. He is. “You’re so fragile, so don’t get bold.”

The beast grinded its hips roughly onto clothed intimacy, and The Recluse bits down a whimper. How horrid it is to be used as nothing but a doll of love, to be toyed with, a plush toy seated in a tea party for lonely souls. Despite the anger, he finds it oddly lovely. Something to be, something he can pass the achingly long eons being. Maybe, just maybe, his birth and all the tragedies he lived all led to this very moment, his destiny being the beast’s companion, its plaything. The only being able to touch him like this, to unravel it until of him there’s nothing but the husk of a body. No more wondering of a lost home neither the incessant tears spilled on the memories of past and future. The Recluse’s heart skips a beat.

“Touching me like an animal would do, how horrid can you be, My Recluse?” Like something that was meant to comfort, the beast’s hand cradles his cheek, its index caressing softly the corner of milky eyes. “I thought that my toy was better than this.” A dramatic, exaggerated sigh escapes pretty lips, vacant eyes turned nearly predatory if not for the deformed glint of something he can’t quite place.

“Why don’t you use you mouth for something useful?” Shadow Milk places one of his hands on his own chest, softly, only for then drag claws across it, forcefully ripping fabric apart and revealing supple breasts. Beads of jam emerge from scratches in the filthiest of ways.

His blond strands were pulled roughly, forcing him to sit up, forcing his face onto the sweetest patch of skin, The recluse licking his dry lips as a reflex, tasting blood that dribbled from above the beast’s breasts. Almost timidly, he pushes prying lips onto the inviting nipple.

Like something sacred, something to revered with the utmost grace. To destroy, and destroy, and destroy, until there’s nothing left to worship anymore. The pretense of control, hands in his hair, a thing of love, numb. The Recluse finds himself loving the way drool spills from his own mouth, lips latched onto the beast’s soft, small chest. Sucking like an infant would to its mother’s chest in search for nutrients, to grow bigger, healthy and lovely. Yet The Recluse feels smaller the more Shadow Milk’s claws dig in his scalp, tugging hair and drawing blood. Never healthy, never lovely.

“Oh, half-penny, did I ever tell you how dumb you look like this?”

Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. All The Recluse could truly follow however was the humiliating humping of his own hips onto the beast’s clothed, wet pussy. Attempting to pleasure himself in anyway he could, his own covered erection hard and weeping into his night clothing. Dirty, so dirty.

And as dirty as an act of love can get, Shadow Milk’s legs trap The Recluse’s hips, ankles crossed. Forced to chase his own high, his whole body shudders, feeling the frantic thumping of the beast’s heart beneath his wet mouth. The Recluse wants to bite down, to tear its chest apart and reach the heart. Anger makes him shake, desire so intense he longs for the innocence in the puppet’s insides. Soiled body, ready to be devoured by the spit covered lips of his. He wonders if consuming its flesh would kill him.

How wonderful would it be to be loved.

“You’re so horrible.” A whisper, so low, so tiny. “I choose my doll so perfectly.”

“I should just kill you, right there. Would you like that? To die. My poor doll must be suffering so greatly. Not a king anymore, neither a peasant, something even lower.” The Recluse’s humping stutter, tip of his clothed cock kissing the beast’s clit with every thrust. Its voice is muffled, like underwater, yet honey-like malice drips in his heart so violently he nearly gags. Low, lowest of the low, forever destined to drown into the distorted love this is. Lovely, nothing lovelier than this. To fall into hell together. His heart flutters with delight.

“Born from deceit, both of us. You can’t leave this, leave me, never.”

The wolf’s jaw snaps shut.