Archive of Our Own ^beta

Brutality and tenderness: juxtaposed.

(Two sides of one coin?)

Brutality, the way of animals.

As in: his hips bruising, his back arching, his teeth clamping down on your arm as you fuck him against a table.

Brutality, as in: base behaviours, simple instincts.

As in: him pulling your hair until you hear it rip; bending your neck so far back you can no longer see him, fucking you without ever looking you in the eye.

Brutality, as in: devoid of compassion, rich with cruelty, as in something feral that must be put down.

Him, walking into your room, neither of you speaking; there is no longer any need.

(Obedience has become automatic. You both already know the rules of this game.)

Barely meeting his eye before you strip; unceremoniously, matter-of-fact, mechanical in a way that only comes with practice and long experience.

Bending over without being asked to, falling on your back without question. Not a single word exchanged between you as he pushes in.

You, cornering him late at night, opening his door without knocking. Nipping at his throat, biting down, your hips and his like two blades clashing.

Hands and knees, barely screaming, barely making a sound.

Fucking for the sake of it. Fucking just to stay alive. Fucking just because there is nothing left of either of you that responds to —

(His hand, resting on your jaw.

His thumb, barely pushing past your lips.
Your tongue, darting out to taste him.
His eyes turning dark, dark green.)

Tenderness.

As in: sensitive to pain.

As: in sore.

As in:

(Before any of this started, when you were still more man than beast;
before you grew fangs, before you shed your skin and scuttled into the cracks of him.

Back when you hooked his leg over your shoulder,
when you gently curled your fingers;
when you fucked him slowly, carefully, savouring the moment,
your heart beating tremulously into his palm.)

A bruise he digs his fingers into.

A cut you split open with your teeth.

Tenderness as in: succulent, easy to consume, like an over-ripened fruit ripped apart and devoured.

Him, unzipping himself underneath the table. You, swallowing him down as his hands remain above, never once touching you.

Taking you in his mouth. Fucking yourself into his white-knuckled fist. Facing each other and still, somehow, looking away. Looking at some far point above the other’s shoulder.

Tenderness, then, must be the way of man. Must be the way of living creatures capable of more than rough hands and dry fingers; of hollow aches and pains.

(This is an evolution played in reverse.)

Tenderness, as in: being sensitive to touch, as in slapping his hand away if he tries to come closer, if he tries to run soft fingers down your skin.

Tenderness, as in: being gentle, as in displaying great affection.

(You, screaming his name.
Him, trembling every time.)

Tenderness, as in:

(A long, long time ago, in what feels like another life entirely.

Him on his side, you behind, one leg around his hips;
Moving into him, slow and careful, as if he was something you could break—

Half-tender, half-gentle, half like someone you used to be,
someone you have since forgotten.

Touching the scar, fresh and red and thick,
like a corded wire down his sternum.

Planting kisses down his shoulder
as he moans and keens and sighs.

Fingers gently grazing over the new bullet wounds,
never brave enough to push down.

His heart, torn to pieces.
Your heart, turned to smoke.

Biting into his shoulder as you take him in your hand,
as you fill his body with heavenly light.)

Tenderness, as in:

(Roy on his knees, prostrated and trembling;

Splitting him open on your tongue,
grabbing him in your fist as you lap him up
until there’s nothing left of him but whines and whimpers.)

Forced to ask yourself when — exactly — things changed so drastically. Knowing it was a slow thing, incremental; a cancer discovered only once it had metastasised.

Not knowing when the line moved, when you decided there was no such thing as limits. Not sure when you passed the point of no return, or if it’s still approaching. If there is, somehow, a way out of this.

You, sepulchral, melancholic, full of woe.

Him, washed out, serrated and bleeding.

The both of you, forced into a strange new shape.

You, in your room, deciding you have asked enough of him. Deciding there is still capacity for change. Or, maybe not change, as such— more like reduction. More like minimising the collateral damage, like burning out alone.

Such as:

Knowing there is no saving you, but there might still be hope for him.

Tying a noose, coiling it around your throat, threaded through your bedpost with the other end twisted in your hand.

Deciding you will no longer ask him to do the things that must be done. Deciding that he’s paid enough, that you have taken more than your share. Deciding that it’s time to let him go.

Wondering who the fuck you have become, as you touch yourself, sat on your knees in the dark of your empty room.

Pulling the rope, tighter than he ever would, white fire flashing before your eyes.

Body alight, full of static gathering into lightning; thunder rumbling through your skull, lungs twisting into knots. Gasping for air, pulling the rope tighter, bringing yourself to the brink—

(Is this what you’ve been reduced to?)

Thinking this is not what you want. This is not who you want to be. This is not the path you want to tread, and yet, you cannot see the way out.

(When did you get so lost?)

Blacking out, unexpectedly.

(This isn’t who you are.)

Waking up, face down on the floor, wet and dripping. Heart empty and hollow.

(This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.)

Wheezing into the carpet, blood rushing back to your brain in great, hot bursts. A terrible sting burning in your eyes; a thrumming bruise wrapped around your throat.

Wondering to yourself if this was worth it, if this changed anything.

Wondering if this is what you truly deserve.

(Wondering, quietly,
if it’s too late.)