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Tyler has three favorite pastimes: drawing, football and Jeremy Gilbert, all of which involve violence.
He learned a long time ago to appreciate the beauty of physical power, when it should be controlled and when it should be unleashed to create the best result. Nothing can quite compare to tackling another boy to the ground and crushing him into the grass, accompanied by said boy's whimpers of pain. The rush it gives him and the empowering knowledge that he can cause damage to another being simply by allowing the brutality to take control of him is addictive. Football is the art of standing perfectly still one moment, every limb tingling with electricity, senses in tune and focused on the opponent, and then letting go and crash into the victim with unforgiving force the next. On the field he can allow the violence to possess him completely and find a sense of meditation and peace in the afterglow of the game, and it is happiness. But there are other ways to fuel the fire, ways that don't involve as much blood, sweat and grime.
Tyler brings the coal pencil in his hand to the blank sheet of paper and touches it lightly to the white surface. Slowly, he presses the tip in, watches as the black powder transfers onto the canvas and leaves a misty river as he drags the pencil down. This kind of power display is even more satisfying than football sometimes. The strength it takes to keep the force he wants to put into the work at bay is coiling in his stomach, tightening his muscles. He prefers coal over pencils and paint, there's just something about the way the material responds to pressure. It's as if the coal is alive in his hands and he's persuading it to take shape on the paper before him, sometimes with threatening force, sometimes with gentle strokes.
The smooth curve of a neck appears before his eyes.
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"Stop fucking staring." Jeremy's looking at him, brows furrowed and words leaving his lips in a hiss. They're both in art class and the teacher is currently droning on about some midterm project that he probably should be paying attention to. Not his fault that Jeremy is so distracting. And yes, he had been staring.
"Don't flatter yourself, Gilbert." He stares for another couple of seconds, just for good measure, before turning back to the teacher. He stares to taunt Jeremy, always does, that's his excuse anyway. He'll let his eyes slide down that pale neck and imagine bruising the skin, wrapping his fingers around Jeremy's throat and squeeze. Had it been anyone else, that fantasy would have been sufficient, but this is Jeremy, and for some reason everything is different with him. Simply strangling him isn't satisfying, so Tyler always ends up searching for alternative ways of making Jeremy's perfect skin burst into black and blue. Biting is his favorite so far.
He thinks about sucking, nipping and biting Jeremy Gilbert's neck until the skin beneath his lips is bruised and hot, and then sliding his tongue across the damage to taste the pain. Tyler wants to mark the boy, make him moan in agony and struggle. That's the true beauty of Jeremy; that he'd fight Tyler every step of the way, giving him an excuse to be rough.
Thinking about manhandling Jeremy in art class is probably not the best idea Tyler's had in a while, though. Thankfully the bathrooms are only down the hall, which is where Tyler finds himself when the class is over, hunched over the sink and splashing cold water on his face. He grins at his mirror image when he's done and pictures Jeremy bleeding on the white tiles behind him, or trapped between Tyler and the wall, or pressed into the door of one of the stalls, anywhere so long as it's Tyler doing it to him. He imagines pushing Jeremy against the sink where he's standing, bending him over it and latching onto his neck, sinking his teeth into the supple skin. And he thinks about what Jeremy's face would look like in the mirror, contorted in pain and his eyes ablaze.
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It hasn't always been like this. Once upon a time, when his mother never raised her voice and his father never raised his hand, Tyler was carefree and knew nothing of violence except what he saw on TV. It's easy to blame his parents for the way he turned out, but something at the back of his mind is telling him that there's more to it than daddy issues. He's felt it more often lately; that throbbing in his head, as if the answer to a question is trying to push its way past sanity and reason to reveal something to him, something that he's not sure he wants to know. The logic behind his violence, the key to his very existence.
The coal creates scratches and smoke on the paper, gathering in black lumps where Tyler is moving it. He likes Jeremy's hair short, so that it doesn't get in the way when they're fighting, but he settles for something in between that and the nearly shoulder length hair the boy sports now, drawing a fringe that throws one of Jeremy's eyes in shadow. Those eyes have always gotten to Tyler. When Jeremy looks at him, it's with one of two glares: either it's the empty one, the one that's glassy and so obviously high, or it's the burning one, where Jeremy's eyes are black oil and when they lock with Tyler's, they catch fire. Drawing them is to run thick lines in the shadow of the fringe and make the iris black and the eyelashes long. Carefully, Tyler runs the pad of his finger above the eye, smudging the coal on the upper lid. Jeremy looks back at him, his gaze on fire.
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The first time Tyler wakes up hard and aching from the memory of Jeremy's eyes are a week after the fantasies he had in the school bathrooms. His sheets are in a bunch at the end of the bed, tying his legs down and his boxers are sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty skin. He realizes morosely, as he palms his throbbing cock, that thinking about rubbing himself against Jeremy in that bathroom was a big mistake. To him, violence has always been exciting. Tackling people and feeling the adrenalin rush through his veins, or simply push someone out of his way, glare at them and see them jump back in fear, it all makes him feel powerful, makes him feel better than them. But he's never gotten hard thinking about it, not until he met Jeremy. There's something about hurting Jeremy that makes his stomach clench, his skin flushes hot and he feels this urge to fight the boy whenever he sees him. Now though, erection straining against his boxers and head filled with images of Jeremy's body writhing beneath his, Tyler knows that he's gone too far.
An image of Jeremy's flushed face surfaces in Tyler's mind, making him groan and close his eyes tightly against the fantasy. It would be so easy. Tyler could seduce Jeremy, or simply pick a fight with him. And then he'd get to feel the boy's body beneath him, wrists tightly secured in Tyler's hands and hips bucking against him. Tyler would press him to the bed and merely lay on him, feel the display of power as Jeremy would struggle to get free. Then he'd lean down and bite him, place bruising kisses all the way up his neck and across his jaw, fit Jeremy's plump bottom lip between his teeth and draw blood. He's fought Jeremy enough times to remember the sounds the boy makes, deep groans and quiet whimpers, and of course the occasional cry when Tyler gets in a good blow. He can easily imagine Jeremy making those noises when trapped beneath Tyler, but then they would be tinted with pleasure, broken only by Jeremy calling his name.
He comes with an image at the back of his eyelids; the image of Jeremy's yielding, pink lips spilling tender moans, and the orgasm tears a low growl from deep in his chest.
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The coal caresses Jeremy's upper lip perfectly, gently tracing the corner of his mouth before sliding down to color the lower lip. Tyler's hand is steady as he moves the coal across the paper, watching as every detail of Jeremy's face takes shape beneath his fingertips, from his cute nose to the moles on his left cheek. Taking a step back, he surveys the drawing, eyes roaming over pale skin and dark shadows. He wants to press the coal to Jeremy's neck, paint bruises and teeth marks on the untouched skin, but he doesn't.
Turning around, a shy smile plays over Tyler's lips. There, in his bed, lies the real masterpiece.
Jeremy's all long limbs and naked skin, stretched out on Tyler's sheets and sleeping peacefully. Walking quietly over to the mattress, Tyler drops the coal pencil on his nightstand and crawls onto the bed. Jeremy stirs, tilting his head to the side and revealing a smooth expanse of neck to Tyler's eyes. Slowly, Tyler leans down, breathing in the scent of sex, sleep and Jeremy. All images of bruises and bites are wiped from his mind and as his lips meet the warm skin of Jeremy's shoulder, even the growling voice at the back of his consciousness becomes silent. Gently, gently he moves his lips to Jeremy's neck and places one small, tender kiss there, the skin flushing rosy as Jeremy awakes.
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