Collaboration: Collaborations are stories that are done with the consent, and use of a original character from another writer. Generally speaking one side (or part) of the story will be posted here, and the other on their story site. Once published, I link to their story will also be provided.
Leo's Studio: https://louchelothario.wixsite.com/leodriskill
Warning: This story has intense violence (gut punching) with erotic elements. If that is not your thing, then skip the story.
Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story. Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building.
The late afternoon sun hung low, casting molten gold across the backyard. The weathered fence circling the patchy grass looked less like suburban privacy and more like the battered walls of a makeshift arena. No crowd. No referee. Not really needed. Just the dull thud of gloves on flesh, the sharp snap of breath between clenched teeth, and the steady rhythm of two men who’d been trading leather long enough to wear the fight on their bodies. Sweat ran in rivulets, darkening patches of dirt where it fell. Bruises bloomed in purple and red along ribs and shoulders. A thin line of blood traced the edge of a mouth, a raw badge of how much fun they were having. This wasn’t about points or belts. This was about power. About pushing past pain until it turned into something addictive.
Kevin’s chest heaved, the black-ink spirals across it shifting with each breath, the design alive with motion. Sweat clung stubbornly to the wiry hair on his torso, glistening like molten glass in the sunlight. His bright green hair, matted, damp, still caught the light like a flare every time he moved. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and grinned through split lips, eyes locked on Rena. Rena stood lighter on his feet, bouncing, his smooth skin slick with sweat that caught the gold of the sun. His curls, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead. His jaw was tight, his breathing steady but charged, gloves already up, not out of caution, but instinct. He shifted with the grace of a streetwise dancer, legs alive with energy, waiting for the next beat in this bruising rhythm they were writing together.
They didn’t speak. They just circled.
Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
The town name wasn't important, rarely was when things hit this close to home. What mattered was the neighborhood, the block, and the two people this story is about. They were two storms, once formed, that never passed peacefully. CelticFire and Diego had lived on the same block their whole lives, but there wasn’t a single memory between them that didn’t end with fists clenched or words sharp enough to cut. It was like they were born to hate each other, and they followed their Karma to the letter. CelticFire was the older of the two, a retired boxer with heavy Irish roots (and he would tell anyone who would listen) and the kind of hands that still twitched whenever he smelled leather and liniment. Old habits die hard, and some never do. His backyard smelled like smoke and meat more often than not, barbecue was his religion now, and neighbors swore he could grill a steak so good it could end wars. Just not the one with Diego, go figure. He carried his pride like an old belt around his waist, faded but still shining when he let his temper loose. Shine might not be a strong enough word, more like... burn. Diego, on the other hand, was somewhat younger, very proud Mexican, and carried himself with a swagger that came from a lifetime in kitchens and a childhood of sparring in neighborhood gyms, and back ally, and street corners, and... well you get the idea. Cooking was his art, his release, and nothing made him prouder (or more filled with joy) than the sound of family and friends tearing into something he made. His food could seriously achieve world peace if given the chance. But under the apron? Under all that charm? There was a man who never let go of the way CelticFire had wronged him. The offense? He had no idea anymore, maybe there wasn't one, and never would be, but he still just didn't like the guy. They were both fire to flint, every single time. Sometimes it was a scuffed-up mailbox. Sometimes it was a trash can tipped over “by accident.” Sometimes it was just the way one of them looked at the other too long. Everyone on the block knew it was coming. The question wasn’t if they’d fight. It was when.
That answer would come late one Friday night.
Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
Ben stood quietly in the back
stockroom, the dim overhead bulbs casting long, flickering shadows
across the stacked rows of cardboard boxes lining the shelves. It was
always cooler back here, nice, still, quiet, a pocket of order tucked
away from the day’s noise. He liked that. He’d always liked the
calm predictability of it. Everything had its place. Everything made
sense. Anyone who ever worked retail would understand.
But today… the air was off.
There was a tension in the room, not loud (yet), not obvious (yet), but definitively present. Subtle and steady, like the low hum of a wire stretched too tight. Ben shifted his stance, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wasn’t bulky in the way of gym rats or athletes, there was no carved six-pack or veiny biceps on display either, but his frame was solid, sturdy. Built like someone who could carry more than his share without complaint.... which he often did. He was above average in size, the kind of man who moved with quiet purpose rather than flash. He wore a dark blue button-down today. Crisp but casual, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. His beard was trimmed close, every line clean. A little older than most guys his age would try to look, but Ben had always carried himself like that. More mature. More put-together. But even with all that discipline, he couldn’t shake the feeling coiling in his gut. Something wasn’t right. And whatever it was, it had followed him back here, into his quiet place, and settled in the shadows between the shelves.
That something, came a moment later from around the corner.
Around the corner came James, strutting more than walking of course. That was him after all, young, inexperienced, walked around like he owned the place, even though everyone knew he barely had his foot in the door. James was the kind of guy who always talked too loud, flirted with anyone breathing, and pushed every boundary HR ever laid down. Men, women, it really didn’t matter. He hit on everyone with the same sloppy charm and wink that somehow kept him just on the barely tolerable side of trouble. His shirt was untucked as usual, not to mention the shirt itself looked like it was making a failing effort to look clean, and his hair was a tousled mess that might have been intentional. His beard, patchy and just shy of unkempt, gave him that "I-don’t-care" edge he wore like a badge of honor. He spotted Ben and lit up like a kid who just found someone to pester.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Always-in-Control!”
Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
The gym reeked of sweat, rubber, and something older, something like... memory and grudges? Not just any grudges mind you, the kind that was settled the old fashion way, with gloving up. Being men. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that made men shift in their boots and hold their breath without knowing why. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sickly glow over the old, battered ring, a relic held together more by tradition than wood and steel. It should’ve been replaced decades ago, but no one dared touch it. No one would even dare suggest it be replaced. After all, men got sentimental over the damnedest things, even more so when blood had been spilled on it. All around, the roar of the gym crowd pulsed like a heartbeat. Trainers, fighters, the curious and the excited, they leaned on ropes and railings, eyes fixed on the square stage like it was holy ground. To them, and really any man of worth, it was. But inside that ring, the world narrowed down to just two men. Everything else, the noise, the heat, the sweat, faded into background static.
Jack stood tall in his corner, bare chest rising and falling. His wiry frame was coiled tight, tension rippling through each breath. Lean muscle clung to his bones like it had grown there for this exact moment. Sweat already gathered along his collarbones, trickling down the shallow valley of his sternum. His eyes were wild with something half cockiness, half thrill. He looked like a man who couldn’t help but smile on the edge of a cliff. Across from him stood Kevin. Like always, he was solid, unmoved, a statue waiting to come to life. The green streaks in his hair caught the overhead lights, glowing like war paint. But it was his eyes that did it. Not the color, but the stillness. Calm. Cold. Focused like a storm before the first crack of lightning. Something dangerous simmered behind that quiet stare, the kind of rage that didn’t shout, it waited.
Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be s...
