after [REDACTED]

something awakened in me watching the hockey fights last night and I don’t think I can put it back to sleep. there’s something beyond romantic about a hot dirtbag dropping his gloves and putting his fists up because he wants the fight, not because the other player did something to offend him but because he wants the blood to spill and the crowd to cheer as they tumble to the ice. it’s like the way I want to wrap my teeth around the side of a man’s neck and have him twitch in response because I hunger for the tactile sensations of sexual desire. no, this isn’t player x reader, I don’t want the hot dirtbag for myself. I want him to realize partway through the fight, maybe after he has a black eye, how homoerotic it is to want the blood to spill. this is player x player, so take your weak ass back to booktok. no, I want the hot dirtbag to succumb to carnal desires beyond the need to beat someone wearing the wrong colors, to recognize the longing in his opponent’s eyes as they roll across the ice, to touch lips to bloodied lips just as the referee endeavors to tear them apart.