Work Text:
Sometimes he just couldn't go on.
Sometimes there was too much of everything, stress, pressure, guilt and longing, too much anger in him, too much bitter craving for things he couldn't seem to get, no matter how hard he tried. All that he would push away, into the dark corners of his mind, and it would pile up, grow, fester, filling him whole until there was no more room left for breathing.
It would coil low in his stomach, in his chest, his limbs, tight unyielding ropes that restricted him, hurt him with every move he'd make, turning him into this rabid dog chained to the wall, unable to do anything, not even bark with how the collar was too tight around his neck.
And he would crave, crave the release, long for it and cry out for it, shaking and not affraid to beg in the end, if it would only help him to let it all out, let it all go.
"Patience, Captain."
The voice, the damn voice, right in his ear, the damp hot breath on his sensitive skin - and the sharp nip on the lobe, making him hiss, making him struggle. Making him bite his own lip to keep from begging more.
He needed it, he needed the violent caress, the brutal touch, the fingers digging into the flesh, deep, until the muscles would ache, until the bruises would blossom, until he'd be ripped open so all the dirt could get out and leave him.
"Rob..."
The smile against his skin, feeling like an insult, and more teeth on the side of his neck, biting down, making him yelp and struggle against the strong hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pressing him against the cold horizontal surface. He was fighting to be free, not from the hand and teeth bur from his own self, from his resisting body, from his stupid head. His hands flailed about, hitting things, hitting him and he almost moaned at the feeling of long, strong fingers wrapping around the wrist, pulling his arm up until tendons and joints howled in pain.
He was howling, too, letting out mute screams with every frantic exhale, face plastered to cold surface, eyes wide open but unable to see a thing. He was moaning, in his head, grateful for the courtesy of wet, cold and slippery substance drizzled between his cheeks, he was begging wordlessly for the blunt pressure, for the forceful entry, for the white surge of pain/pleasure shooting up his spine, time and time again.
Then the world would cease to exist for a little while, for an eternity, and there would be just that, between them, their bodies, still fighting against each other, still strugling for power, not letting go until they finally had no other choice but to let go. Harsh kisses, bites, blunt fingernails digging into sweaty skin, words of hate and admiration wedged between muffled cries of pleasure.
Then, in the bright moment of absolute delight, there would be the simple happiness of the dirt leaving him, being wiped out by the pleasure, there would be the momentary realisation of the true nature of everything between them, the true commitment, the feelings, the meaning behind every single word and gesture. In those few moments of peace, he'd feel exactly where the bond lied, where exactly it was running between them, keeping them together, thread by thread, wound too tightly to ever be severed by anything else but death. He would feel it with each and every one of his senses, and he would smile through the tears, joy and pain united for few beautiful seconds.
The crash would be painful, their bodies pulling them back down and against the ground with a shattering clatter, the bitterness seeping in instantly, fueled by the memory of all those things that were wound in the invisible thread between them. The guilt, the grudge, the past that they couldn't leave behind and the future they didn't know how to claim. And the present, with shaking legs, racing hearts and sweat cooling rapidly on abused skin.
"You love it, don't you."
The words, once again, against his ear, the tone that's meant to be cocky but being too soft instead, like there was something else being said in this deep, raspy voice.
I love you.
Why don't you love me back?
"Fuck off, Rob," he would say and be answered with a throaty chuckle that had nothing to do with happiness, and that would be it, the end, the coldness in a place where the hot body was just a second ago. Footsteps and the sound of the door closing.
A void.
Sometimes, he just couldn't go on, and then there was this, the empty space where all the dirt used to be. He would be left bare, aching and empty, uncoiled and relaxed - and empty. And he knew, every single time, that soon the void in him would start hurting, start sucking in all that was bad, the stress, the pressure, the guilt and the longing, the anger and the bitter craving...
So he could have Rob again.