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Sometimes Love Can Only Be Inflicted, or What The Fuck Is This Madness. or Not_You Needs Professional Help

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The drops of blood from his split lip marked the seconds. Five went by before he spoke, putting his hand to his jaw tenderly, cradling the pain that was now blooming through the numbness of the initial impact, holding it close to his insulted flesh. "Do you love me, Sarge?" he asked. His voice was always a little husky, but he sounded hoarse in his own ears, and a little sleepy, something that never really went away, no matter what the situation.

"Yes!" Sarge sobbed, mopping his eyes with his sleeve in the rough, awkward manner of a man who would much rather bleed than cry. "Yes, goddamn you!"

"Prove it to me," Beetle half-moaned, and was then almost silent as Sarge's fist shot into his midsection, his only sound the forced forced exhalation. He would have fallen if he hadn't been on the floor already. The cool, smooth concrete under his hands was soothing. Beetle decided he had never seen anything more beautiful than his blood on the concrete, viewed with the knowledge that Sarge had shed it. He reached up, his hands clutching at Sarge's legs, plucking at the fabric of his uniform trousers. He kept his eyes down, knowing that Sarge hated to be looked at during times like this. Sarge slapped him anyway, hard enough to break his grip, making his ears ring and his eyes blur with tears as he struggles to stay on his knees.

"Goddammit I'm not queer!" Sarge roared, and he kicked Beetle in the ribs, walking around to crouch behind him, so massive and heavy, radiating heat.

He yanked Beetle's pants down around his knees and opened his own fly, those big paws of his trembling the way they did every time. Beetle couldn't help a contented little hum, arching his back more and spreading his legs as wide as he could, trapped in his clothes like this.

"I'm not!" Tears were streaming down Sarge's face now, and his voice was raw and cracked. "You are, you sick little faggot!"

He shoved Beetle's face to the floor as he slammed into him, every inch burning, not even slicked with spit. Beetle knew he'd be bleeding there, too. He always did. He always came, too. His body craved Sarge's cock no matter how much it hurt, craved it because of how much it hurt. Each thrust was like a punch to the gut, short and sharp, knocking the breath out of him.

Gradually Sarge started going deeper, the way he always did, pounding into Beetle so deeply it felt like Sarge would come on his beating red heart as Sarge sobbed "I hate you" over and over again in time to the rhythm of Beetle's bloodied cheek on the cool concrete, rocked back and forth as Sarge used him. Just as Beetle knew that 'I love you' was the truth, he knew 'I hate you' for the bullshit it was, and just groaned softly, weak and trembling with pain and lust and the way they always worked together for him.

Beetle always tried to touch himself. His hand went to his cock automatically, even though he knew Sarge would never allow it. He always slapped Beetle's hand away, pinning him to the floor and fucking him harder than ever. Sarge had never touched him there. Not once. There was absolutely no weakening of his resolve. Beetle always wanted to touch him, but Sarge wasn't having any of that. Anything different from their circumscribed and brutal rutting would be queer.

Tears and sweat dripped off of his nose Beetle's nose and mingled with the blood on the floor. Aside from a few barely-audible groans, he never made a sound besides his hoarse breathing, except for a shaky, despairing wail that he couldn't recognize as his own voice when Sarge finally pounded his climax out of him. Sarge always came second, his hands wrapping around Beetle's throat and choking him until his vision greyed at the edges before he finally bellowed a last declaration of hate, his hips surging as he emptied himself into Beetle. Every time Beetle was sure someone would hear him, but no one ever seemed to.

As soon as he could move, Sarge rolled off of him, weeping openly, his huge, calloused hands hiding his face. He always did that, and by now Beetle knew that any attempt to comfort him would result in a dislocated shoulder, so Beetle let him be, dragging his pants back on and curling up in a ball beside the smear of blood, sweat, tears and semen. He liked this part, when his mind was quiet and there was nothing but the satisfaction and the pain all over his body, every inch of him covered with the bruises that he knew were Sarge's version of kisses and love bites. Beside him, Sarge's weeping slowly turned into normal breathing, and he let out a big, shuddering sigh.

Sarge finally stood on shaky legs and wiped his cock on a bandana, tossing the filthy thing at Beetle when he was done. "Clean yourself up."

Beetle nodded, pressing the rag to his split lip and gazing up at Sarge. "Sir," he murmured, with more attention to military discipline than he paid at any other time, "thank you, sir."

Sarge's lip curled in disgust and he turned to go and then suddenly turned back, dropping to his knees and grabbing Beetle in a crushing hug. It was brutal and made all his bruises hurt, but he sighed, cuddling in against Sarge's bulk for one delightful minute before Sarge pushed him off again and got up. This time he did leave, without a word.

That was all right by Beetle. He put the rag to his face again and breathed in Sarge's scent, making a quiet, contented noise in his chest. After a long moment he shifted onto his hands and knees, reaching back and slipping his hand under the waistband of his pants and pushing two fingers into himself. He shuddered and hissed at the pain, spent cock trying to get hard again. He savored the feeling for a moment and then pulled his fingers out again, pink with his blood and Sarge's semen. He hummed in pleasure as he sucked them deep into his mouth, and his tongue caressed every inch of them as he used the bandana to mop up the mess on the floor.