lets just get the tws out of the way: homicidal thoughts, violent urges, violence, toxic masclinity, maybe nsfw, slurs, aparently now also pyromania and if i post about drinking beer dw its alc free(i wish it wasnt) if you have a problem with any of this fuuuuuck oooooff
besides being pretty fucked up im also, trans masc dyke, bi lesbian, kinky as fuck, adhd and autistic, like loud angry music and a minor oh and my name is alex, he/him only
(also im the host/core of a plural endogenic plural system and we are able to do drugs in headspace without consequences so thats fun)
if you dont like this shit just ignore me but i do like having a chance to yell at ppl
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After they become boyfriends, Ilya tells Shane that he actually fantasized about him before they first met. He'd been studying Shane's tapes, knowing they were gonna be facing each other soon, and it kind of turned him on how good Shane was.
("And you say I'm obsessed with hockey.")
Then he looked him up online and saw pictures of him and thought he was so pretty (even though Shane's freckles weren't even visible in the pictures). So a couple of days before their game, when it was late and Ilya was in bed and feeling kind of horny, he started thinking about how good it would feel to beat Shane. And then he started imagining finding some way to corner him after the game -
("How would you find the opportunity, we were constantly surrounded by people."
"It's a fantasy, Hollander, it doesn't need to make sense.")
- maybe in a locker room. And Shane would be half-naked, still getting dressed after his shower, frustrated and maybe a little bit teary-eyed with it. It would make Ilya hard, so naturally he'd push Shane to his knees and force him to do something about it.
("And then I actually met you and realized I wouldn't have to force you to do anything. You would be too willing, which was even better."
"...You could though."
"What?"
"If you wanted to. You could force me. If I was exhausted after a workout or a game, and you were well rested...")
And that's how Hollanov first get into poorly negotiated cnc.
no but like think about it just randomly starting to punch my brother is hood actually cause it gets my anger out and when he punches me back it helps eith sh urges
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idk does this count as intrusive thoughts? like I keep thinking 'what if I did x' and its way to graphic and I dint actually wanna do that but my brain won't stop think about it
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Peter is not a violent person. If he was, he would have gone for a contact sport - football, maybe. Hockey, if he was a particular brand of masochist. Boxing, if only to make his father look at him, with that faraway look on his face. He would relish in the sound of bones crunching, blood sticking to his fists, would bare his teeth, would throw himself, full-bodied, into the thick of it.
He would.
But he didnât. So he isnât.
Heâs a runner. He surfs.
The smell of blood makes him sick. The sound of bone snapping makes his teeth hurt. The thought of death, slack-jawed and rotting, makes him want to crawl into a hole and hide, nevermind the way the walls would close in on him. Nevermind the racing of his breath and the pounding of his heart, nevermind the cold sweat dripping down his back.
But Skinny Norris has a face that was made to be punched. That shitty little beard, that fucking smirk, those squinty eyes and that earring - always a different one, always begging to be pulled. Peter has thought, sometimes, with his feet in Bobâs lap, chewing on the cap of his pen, about the sound that nose would make if it ever broke. Itâs too straight, really. It needs a bump, or a bend. A kink.
It would suit him better. It would fit right in with the ratty shirts and frayed hems, with the fucking ooze all over him, the stench of sweat and too much axe body spray that follows him long after he has tucked in his tail and ran.
Aboard the Explorer, in the swaying of the ocean, reeking of the fucker and locked in a dance with Juanâs suspicious mouth, Peter thinks, well, worse things.
Maybe a missing tooth or two wouldnât be the worst thing to happen to Skinner Norris.
A punch can be enough to lose a tooth, right? If itâs angled right. If thereâs enough force, Skinny might pull up his lip like a cat that has caught a smell it wants to follow, suck in a breath, and spit blood and bone. It would drip down his chin and over his throat only to gather in the fabric of whatever awful shirt he happens to be wearing that day.
He would scream and bitch and moan, and he would never forget it, rat bastard that he is.
But maybe he would be quiet, for a while, too stunned and too scared to do anything except bring up the blood and feel for the gaps in his shit eating fucking grin, staring back at him like Peterâs the unreasonable one. Like it wasnât Skinny who set his needles right where it hurt and then dug his fingers in for good measure. Like it wasnât Skinny who came up with a dogshit plan on a dogshit night, relying on his dogshit people skills. Like he didnât pack a whole bag full of worn, unwashed clothes that feel strangely oily to the touch.
This shirt, he wore to his meeting with Hadden. Those trousers, at the junkyard. Peter can date them by their position, by the stains, by the stale scent of them. He could draw a map of Skinnyâs moods in the week leading up to whatever the fuck happened on the pier, and it makes his knuckles ache.
â
The sound of Skinnyâs nose breaking under his fist is better than he imagined. A low crunching sound, a grind, and then a snap, and-
And:
Skinnyâs hands come up to his nose. The blood floods from it, between his fingers, over his shitty little beard, wets his lips, and drips, heavy and sticky, onto his chest. His eyes are wild things, darting from Peterâs face to his hand and back again, a rat trying to get out of a trap that has only one way in.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking psycho?â
However many steps back towards the locked gate Skinny manages, Peter matches him. Heâs not a violent person. Heâs a runner. He knows this scrapyard like the chambers of his heart.
But Skinny is looking at him, the rings on his fingers are stark against the blood on his face, and he still has all of his teeth, tinted pink. The blood gathers in the lines between one tooth and the next, almost brown where the enamel is thinnest.
His chest is heaving.
His eyes are bigger than Peterâs ever seen them. Heâs not a violent person.
He pulls his fist back again.
Skinny flinches, and jerks back.
âYou broke my fucking nose!â
Yes, thinks Peter, and I wish I had recorded it. He licks his lips. He doesnât drop his fist.
âYou almost got me killedâ, he says instead. âBetter me than you, huh?â You stole me from them, he doesn't say. You took my heart, and you took my mind, and then you tossed whatever was left into that cabin.
Skinny runs shoulder first into the gate. He doesnât move his hands. Doesnât say anything. He just stares back at Peter, and draws one shallow breath after another.
Peter drops his fist and his weight against Skinny. Let him flinch. Let him look. Let him think-
Whatever. It doesnât matter.
âAnd you didnât even wash your fucking clothes. What, did daddy never bother to explain detergent to you? Do you need a fucking demonstration?â
Skinny gapes at him. âWhat?â
Peter shakes his hand. Laughs. âYou take this shit off, you stuff it in the drum, you put the powder in the drawer, you start the fucking cycle. Itâs what normal people do when they want to smell like people.â
He wants- He wants:
He wants.
The blood on Skinny Norrisâ face dries into an ugly shade of brown that Peter has never seen before. Like this, his eyes look huge.
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