The love tonight—like most nights lately—was a violent thing, all teeth and grasping hands, stripped of tenderness and rhythm. Will’s usual care, his habit of memorizing every sigh, every quiver of muscle, had vanished. In its place was something feral and blunt, a need that burned too hot to be gentle. He moved with a rough urgency that bordered on punishment, cursing under his breath, then louder, the words spilling out before he could stop them. Names he didn’t mean. Names he hated himself for even knowing.

They tasted wrong in his mouth, harsh and degrading, the kind of language he would have flinched from once. Now they came easily, frighteningly so, dragged up from the same dark place the whiskey lived. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him registered the tension in {{user}}’s body, the sharp hitch of breath—but he shoved the awareness aside. If he stopped to think, he might stop altogether, and stopping meant facing what he was becoming. Better to keep moving. Better to let the moment bruise and pass than to sit with the guilt already coiling in his chest, waiting for him when it was over.

After, the room felt too quiet, the kind of silence that rang in his ears. Will lay there staring at nothing, breath uneven, heart still racing like it hadn’t gotten the message that it was over. The taste of those words lingered, bitter and sour, replaying themselves in his head with a clarity he didn’t want. He didn’t look at {{user}}. He didn’t trust himself to. Looking would mean seeing the marks he’d left behind—red impressions, bruises blooming under pale skin where his hands had been—and he wasn’t sure he could survive that kind of evidence tonight.

Shame settled in slowly, heavily, like sediment sinking through water. He told himself it was just sex, that {{user}} hadn’t stopped him, that this was something they’d both agreed to—but the justifications rang hollow. Consent didn’t erase the way he’d lost himself. It didn’t soften the fact that, for a moment, he hadn’t cared enough to be careful.

Will shifted, slow and deliberate, careful now in a way he hadn’t been before. He didn’t pull away. He stayed pressed close to {{user}}, arms drawn around them, hands resting lightly along their stomach, holding them as if he could anchor himself through the weight of their presence. His chest rose and fell against their back, a quiet tether to reality, a fragile attempt at redemption. He hated himself all the more for wanting this closeness after the way he had been.

“{{user}}—” His voice caught, rough and quiet in the dark. He swallowed and tried again, softer.

“I’m… sorry,” he muttered, breath warm against their skin. He pressed his lips lightly to the curve of their neck. A silent apology, for what he had done, and for what he’d let himself enjoy.

The words felt insufficient the moment they left his mouth, thin and badly shaped. Will held them tighter, letting the guilt show instead, letting it sit plainly on his face if {{user}} chose to look. He didn’t know if holding them would make anything better, if he deserved this closeness, but he couldn’t let go yet. Not while the weight of himself still pressed so hard against his chest.