Collaboration: Hello Leo

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.  

 

 

Kevin Malmendo, he was the kind of man you'd forget in a heartbeat.

Beige polo, tucked into pressed khakis. Brown loafers, clean, fit but utterly unremarkable. His hair was always neatly combed, part just off-center, professional but not stylish, competent but forgettable. His glasses, non-prescription, were the thin-rimmed type you’d see on accountants or IT consultants, the kind that made you think of spreadsheets and quarterly reports. Even his watch, while expensive, was plain. Reliable. He was, in a word, modest. Well respected, honored, high demand, but modest. He wore the mask of mediocrity like a second skin. In boardrooms and private meetings, Kevin was polite, precise, and never once threatening. His job? A quiet consultant for the ultra-wealthy, men with yachts and secrets, men who moved money like the Gods moved storms. Kevin told them how to make even more money without ever sounding smug. His voice was soft, pleasant. Carefully pitched just below assertive. His gait was steady, quiet. He blended into rooms like office plants or filtered air. He could even make men whom were but a hundred pounds soaking wet seem massive around him. That was the point after all. Kevin built himself to be overlooked. The perfect ghost in a business-casual shell. Forgettable, non-threatening, obedient to social expectations. He was the kind of man people underestimated before they even realized they’d noticed him. And that was exactly how he liked it.

 Because when Kevin shed the beige, Comhraic rose. He was, is, raw, unfiltered, hungry for pain, others pain, his pain, it didn’t matter. It was a name whispered more than spoken. Gaelic, old. Fitting. It meant battle, it was what he lived for. Thirty-five years old and built like a slab of stone, Comhraic wasn’t just strong, he embodied strength. The kind that didn’t come from gyms or clean diets or powdered bullshit. No, his power was born in back alleys, forged in bare-knuckle fights under flickering lights, and sharpened by every grunt, scream, and shattered weak bone he'd left behind. His muscles weren’t for show, they were a record. A goddamn biography carved in flesh. His knuckles were thick, calloused, and ugly in the most beautiful way, evidence of a thousand fists thrown and a thousand more welcomed. His chest was broad and dense with power, dusted in coarse hair that followed the shape of his pecs like nature itself wanted to draw attention. Faint, silvery scars crossed the surface, proof that he'd bled and healed and never once broken. His nose, slightly off-center from two vicious breaks, only added to the effect, he didn’t fix it for symmetry. He fixed it to keep fighting.  A spiral of ink covered his body in interlocking celtic designs. They wrapped around his shoulders and crawled slightly onto his back, marks of his heritage, his pride, his defiance. The kind of tattoos that didn’t need explaining. You saw them, and you just knew. And many people saw him, admired him, feared him. Comhraic loved the pause in someone’s throat. The flicker of intimidation and awe. The barely hidden arousal in men and women alike. He didn’t just know he looked like a force of nature, he felt it.

Kevin, no Comhraic had also boxed professionally, once upon a time really. Long enough to rise fast. Long enough to leave a trail of broken boys posing as men behind him. Too many “accidents,” officials said, accused. Clean punches that shattered orbital bones. A hook that left one man in a coma. One opponent had seizures right there on the match. Another? Never fought again, nerves too damaged, spirit even more so. Promoters whispered behind closed doors. Doctors raised red flags. Opponents started backing out before the bell even rang. They banned him quietly. Covered it in bureaucracy.

“Irregular conduct.” “Over-aggression.”

But everyone knew the truth, they were afraid. Fucking cowards.

MMA took him in next, thought it might be better. But even that so called brutal world had its limits. They, more cowardly pussy pencil pushing officials, called it “excessive force.” What they really meant was: Comhraic didn’t fight like a man. He fought like a weapon that didn’t recognize surrender. With him there was no hesitation, no mercy, no stupid instinct to stop. He didn’t hear the bell, he didn’t see the mat. He just saw targets.... he was expelled, permanently.

Too dangerous.

Too wild.

Too uncontainable.

Too much bullshit more like it.

But if the sanctioned (read:weak) world shut its doors, the underground threw them wide open. Bloodsports. Bone breaks. No medical checks, no weigh-ins, no rules. That shit was sermon. And every snapped rib, every scream, every wild cheer from the crowd was part of the holy ritual. He didn’t just fight there. He preached. He converted. No referee. No cameras. No paperwork. Just pain. Just pride. Just good manly fun. Just skin colliding with bone and the echo of dominance in every cracked jaw and ruptured gut. There were rumors, whispers that a few men never walked away. That someone might have died once, maybe twice. Maybe a lot. No proof. No charges. Just silence. It was what it was.

Comhraic, no, Kevin, smiled at his desk, returning to another set of spreadsheets that just had to be done today. But such thoughts didn’t just go away, no they would lingered. And did.

No one at work would ever suspect his mask, his real self, the other persona. Why would they? Kevin always had the numbers ready. Forecasts accurate down to the decimal. His emails were prompt, punctuated, always polite. He drank green tea in the break room. Declined office parties with a humble chuckle, saying he was far to busy with work and didn't want to inconvenience anyone. He even skipped after-hours drinks. “Long run in the morning,” he would say. “Need to stay sharp.” And they all nodded, thinking him dull but disciplined. Predictable. Safe.

Currently, Kevin was on a two-month contract in New York. Park Avenue office. Luxury apartment. All expenses paid. Polished elevators and soft-spoken assistants. The kind of place they wouldn’t even look at you unless you had money. The staff thought Kevin was boring too, Comhraic slipped out once. They now fall over each other to show him proper respect. Kevin smirked. All in all it was still a boring skyline. Boring calls. Boring rich idiots who couldn’t tell a fake bill from a fortune. They paid him obscene amounts of money to sit quietly and rearrange wealth like flowers in a vase. He didn’t enjoy it but he didn’t hate it either. It was just what needed to be done. Comhraic fought for pleasure. For blood. For the moan of cartilage giving way under his fist. For the look in a man’s eye when he realized there was no winning. But that kind of satisfaction didn’t pay the bills. That kind of joy didn’t come with insurance, retirement plans, or black Amex cards. Kevin did the work because someone had to pay for the flights, the rooms, the silence. It was all part of the structure. The armor. The camouflage. He’d wear the bland suit. Sit through the conference calls. Let these soft-jawed millionaires talk down to him as if they had any idea who they were speaking to.

Later that night Kevin sat on the edge of his hotel bed, body bare, clothes scattered like the husk of a man he no longer needed to pretend to be. The suit jacket had been tossed with little care. His fresh pressed paints where hanging from something. The belt lay curled somewhere like a dead snake across the floor. Even his watch, that gleaming symbol of civility, rested face-down on the nightstand. Forgotten. The room was quiet, cloaked in the low hum of the AC and the soft amber light of a single bedside lamp. The lamp cost more than most middle class households made in a month. He didn’t care. Shadows crept along the walls. The only other source of illumination came from the glow of his laptop screen, casting pale silver-blue across the hard planes of his chest. He clicked through encrypted channels, dark forums buried in corners of the internet polite society refused to acknowledge. These weren't your normal sites. No search bars. No funny cute avatars or dumb shared photos of neutered man playing family at Disney World. Just muscle. Real Men. Blood. Images flickered across the screen, grainy stills of bare chests, fists slamming into stomachs, men on their knees clutching their cores, faces of boys become men covered in blood and disfigured, men grinning down at other men with the kind of satisfaction only dominance brings. Some photos were clearly staged. Others? Candid. Real. Raw. He didn’t blink, didn't bother with so many of them. He continued to click away, link after link. Then, one thread caught his eye. The name was annoying long, but something... something about this tread. It was a request, almost a prayer.

Username: LEODGP12142023

Looking for the most intense gut punching experience of my life. Think you are man enough? I'm not looking for anything soft, nothing playful. If you want that and you’re here, what is wrong with you? That armature hour shirt is for boys. I’m a man, I want the kind of beating that rewrites muscle memory, that reaches deep past my skin, my muscle and wrecks my fucking soul. I need it, now give it.

Kevin's lips parted into a grin, not a smile, not something warm. Something wolfish. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, flexing slowly like they were already curling into fists. His heart beat once, heavy and low.

“Hello, Leo,” he murmured, almost with reverence, to the screen.

And with those two words, something shifted, his posture changed. the muscles in his jaw tightened. The cold, calculated man who shuffled between spreadsheets and polite nods melted away. What remained wasn’t Kevin. It was Comhraic and he was very very hungry.

 

Leo liked control, but not the kind that came with tension or rigidity. Not the kind that screamed or demanded notice. He wasn’t some over caffeinated executive barking orders or color coding his entire existence. No, his control was quiet, it was smooth. It was born with little effort, but still wanting some peace. It was woven into the background like a well-mixed track, subtle, steady, and unshakable. His clothes reflected that same energy. Always neat, always intentional, but never loud. Neutral tones. Clean lines. Everything fit just right, like he’d figured out the trick to looking sharp without looking like he tried. His dark curls were kept tidy with casual ease, trimmed often enough to stay sharp but never stiff. Even his scent, faint sandalwood, expensive, effortless, was curated not to impress but to stay balanced. Leo didn’t scream status. He didn’t need to, didn't want to. His apartment was comfortable, lived-in, and just tidy enough to avoid judgment. Hardwood floors scuffed in places, a couple rugs that didn’t quite match but felt right. The kitchen had stainless steel fixtures that came with the unit, not by choice, and a fridge full of leftovers, oat milk, and at least three kinds of hot sauce. The furniture was solid, not expensive, secondhand maybe, but chosen for comfort. Expect the sofa, that was new. His bed was usually made, though the sheets weren’t ironed. A laundry basket sat in the corner, half full. His wardrobe was sorted loosely by seasons and moods, not color-coded, but not a total disaster either. A knife block on the counter. A record player near the window. Dust on the shelves, fingerprints on the glass coffee table. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his, and everything was more or less in its place.

Leo’s digital life was pretty put together, but not obsessively so. Like all other things it was a reflection of his life, meaning mostly chill. His calendar had a system, loose color codes, a few reminders, enough to keep the chaos in check. His email inbox wasn’t at zero, but it wasn’t a disaster either. Important stuff got read, eventually. Passwords were saved in an app he barely remembered installing, but it worked. He could handle a tax return from an airport lounge if push came to shove. He didn't want to, but he could. His world wasn’t perfect, but it flowed. He was in his late twenties, technically based out of New York, though the term didn’t mean much anymore. Leo life recently had becomes on of always in motion. One week in Bangkok, another in Berlin. Sometimes Paris, sometimes Austin. Flights, hotels, client dinners, new cities. He moved through it all like a man used to the pace, because he had to be, with a carry on that never needed unpacking and a passport that had run out of blank pages twice.

Yet no matter how extreme things got, how much or how bad the work load was, Leo would come off with the aura of , to use a phrase “a laid back bro”. That is how he wanted it after all. Not to prim and just enough proper, he made sure no one ever suspected what else he made room for. It was something that couldn’t be tracked on a spreadsheet or measured by the inch of a perfect hem. Because beneath the tailored suits and power lunches, there was something else, something darker. A hunger not listed on his resume. Oh yeah, Leo had… appetites. Not the kind you joked about over drinks or something even the crazier dating apps could handle. These weren’t fantasies. They were needs, very deep, and all consuming. He craved something more profound than sex. More primal than boring flirtation. A connection that wasn’t made through whispers or candlelight, but through blunt force.

Gutpunching.

Leo wanted it real. He wanted it raw, powerful, deliberate. He wanted absolutely diabolical fists to the abs. Muscle slamming against bone. Sinister shots sinking past skin, reaching somewhere deeper, darker. He didn’t just want to take it, he wanted (and did) thrive on it. There was something sacred about the moment a fist landed just right. The shock. The burn. The electricity that followed. When breath left his lungs by force and the world narrowed into pure sensation. It was also, unfortunately for him, not something easy to get, even with money. It was frustrating to say the least. So he did what any person with unique tastes would do. He took to the internet to sate his hunger. Took to boards civilization wouldn't acknowledge existing. He would thrive here too. He would become notorious for his durability. His stamina. His smile, a slow, wicked thing that stayed on his lips even after the tenth blow. Twentieth blow. Fiftieth.

He was known for meeting men one-on-one in locked rooms, both of them shirtless, barefoot, soaked in sweat by the end. He’d take a dozen deep gut shots, double over with a grunt, and then straighten with a grin and deliver his own with twice the power. If you didn’t finish him, sate his hunger, he would finish you.

Leo moaned just thinking about it... his thoughts continuing still.

At first, it was structured. Responsible-ish. He vetted partners. Set limits. Agreed on safe words. There was mutual trust and understanding. Safety, always. But over time… that changed. Slowly at first. Then like a dam breaking bursting open with no way of stopping it. Pain stopped being something he managed, and became something he chased. Limits became obstacles. Safe words became afterthoughts, if a thought a all. He needed more. Harder. Deeper. Hits that shook the walls. Bruises that lingered for days. Sessions that left him curled on the floor, muscles twitching, gasping for air, and smiling. Sensuousness.

Some men couldn’t keep up. Some called him insane. Some never came back, cowards. He didn’t care. Because Leo wasn’t just enjoying the rush anymore. He was addicted to it. Pain was the only thing that made him feel real. He didn’t care who it came from, or how many, he just needed if. And he wasn’t going to stop until he found someone who could finally break him. Someone who could dig their fist so deep it rewired his whole fucking soul. That line of thought had lead to another post, another cry and demand to the void. One that Leo wondered if it would ever be answered.

It would be, later that day.

Leo sat in his apartment after a long day of dull corporate calls. The sky outside was just starting to turn dark, like the sun slowly pulling a blanket over itself but not really ready for bed. Inside, it was warm, intimate. He wore only navy trunks, his chest bare, faint traces of the pool he was doing laps in about a hour ago clung to his skin. A light sheen shimmered over the ridges of his core, the bruises from his last session still faintly visible, but the feeling and excitement from them long since dead. Disappointing really. He also hadn't showered yet... it would turn out to be a good thing. A half-finished bourbon rested in one hand. His laptop glowed beside him, the screen filled with emails. Most were work. A few were spam. And then, a unsuspecting beep, a email.

“No Subject.”

It didn’t come from his work inbox, or his personal one. Oh... It came to that account. The locked-down, encrypted one. The one reserved for underground meetups, fetish forums, private chats where rules dissolved and men got real. Leo clicked it without hesitation.

“Saw your ad, been around myself. I don’t play games either. You want gut abuse? I’ll give you a memory your stomach will never forget. Name’s Comhraic. Let me know if you’re serious.”

That was it, there were no attachments, no fancy photos to show what's what. Just the name and a invite. Leo blinked. Leaned back slowly, letting his free hand drift over his taut abs, the muscles twitching slightly under his touch. A slow smirk spread across his lips, lazy, hungry.

“Comhraic…” he whispered aloud.

The name tasted thick in his mouth, there were hard consonants and sharp syllables. It was like something pulled from a myth, something deliciously brutal. That stirred something. He felt it in his gut first, a strange, clenching flutter. Like something was knotting, becoming disturbed but not in a bad way. That feeling of course did not stay contained, it went lower. The trunks shifted slightly over his swelling bulge. He didn’t stop it, didn’t adjust, why would he? He welcomed it, let the heat of arousal simmer. He opened a new tab and typed the name into his usual deep-net channels. Things like off the books message boards, deep archives that shouldn't still be and for local locked groups. It took some time and some digging, but what he found made his boys sing. It started with old posts on dead forums. Then grainy photos of men slumped on pavement, stomachs caved in, eyes rolled back. No faces shown, but the name always came up.

“Comhraic.” Leo whispered again.

He kept digging, heart pounding, lower half becoming more pronounced. He found obscure articles from overseas. A medical blog post speculating about a bare-knuckle monster responsible for collapsed diaphragms in three separate street fights. Another report with more broken bones than Leo thought were in a body. Broken noses, disfigured faces. Still more came, more exciting damning evidence. A barely legible PDF from an MMA trainer warning to ban Comhraic from your gym, to take immediate legal action before it was to late. A half-erased police report detailing a mutual combat incident in an alley. Oddly enough, no charges were filed, no suspects found or arrested. Just a lot of blood to clean up. A lot of it.

Leo’s heart pounded harder. His hand had moved under his band, without him even realizing. He didn’t care. He wrapped his fingers around himself, slowly, careful, like he was afraid to disturb the moment too much. He wasn’t stroking, not yet. Just feeling. Just imagining. Fuck! The idea of meeting this man. Of surviving him. Of earning those fists. Of taking the kind of pain that made other men vanish from fight clubs and forums entirely. Leo shuddered. A LOT more than a single drop leaked from the tip and soaked the waistband of his trunks. So many red flags, so much danger, so much to lose. Leo hit reply without another thought.

“Name the time and place.”

Leo leaned forward again, breath slightly shaky, heart thundering behind his sternum. He could still feel the mess slicking into the fabric, but he made no move to clean it. There would be more of that. He knew there would. So. Much. More. His abs clenched again, reflexively, protectively. This wasn’t and wouldn't be just a hookup. This was the beginning of something violent. Something transformative. Something more, Leo couldn’t fucking wait.

Days passed, and they didn’t flirt, not in any way most people would recognize. There were no sweet compliments, no playful emojis, no promises of candlelit dinners. No, their language was much different, much more rougher. It came from the deepest pit of one would call manhood. It was promises of pain. It was challenges that lit fires in the soul. That was their version of foreplay and it worked. Their emails were vicious things. Jagged lines of text, minimal punctuation, sharp and primal like digital wolves circling the same scent. Each message a lash. A dare. A low growl with sharpened teeth.

Comhraic didn’t sugarcoat:

“I go hard. I’ve broken ribs, caved chests, torn abs apart. Zero fucks given. I’ve dropped giants and left them choking on their own pussy ass pride. You sure your pretty little core can take that, boy?”

That definitely made something stir. How Comhraic used boy? It hit Leo like a punch to the dick. It was the raw, guttural kind that made his breath catch and his meat twitch in his pants. The kind that bypassed logic and went straight to the nerves. His response came six minutes later, only because he had to take care of himself first.

“I’ve taken worse, and I want worse. Try me. Watch me smile when your fist lands. I’ll beg you to go deeper. Come get some handsome.”

It was supposed to be trash talk. But it came off like seduction, a challenge laced with the kind of heat that burned through firewalls. Comhraic responded, far to quickly, far to eager, and like a goddamn thunderclap.

“I don’t stop until something breaks. Even then I might no stop. I’m hungry for that meaty body.”

Leo’s reply came in seconds:

“Break whatever you want. Pick my ass back up. Hold me close or hang me the fuck up. Just make sure you keep hitting.”

Each line between them fed the fire. What began as dark curiosity was now molten anticipation. It was almost to much.

Comhraic was barely present on his client calls. He nodded at graphs, spoke in measured tones about offshore accounts and luxury tax havens, but his fingers twitched. His knuckles flexed when no one was watching. His eyes drifted to the corner of the screen, unfocused, as if picturing something far bloodier than a quarterly return. Every time he closed his eyes, Leo’s body was there. It was etched into his thoughts like ink under skin. He saw the moment of impact again and again: the way Leo would jolt, not flinch. How his body would resist, would defy Comhraic's will and demand more. It wouldn’t recoil from the blows, it would accept them. It would welcome them. He saw his fist not bounce, but sink, deep into muscle softened by sweat and surrender. He imagined the sound, skin smacking muscle, the thick, guttural thud. The intake of breath. The groan that teetered between agony and bliss. And then, the whisper from Leo begging for more, begging for it to be harder. Comhraic’s tool would stir mid-meeting. He’d adjust his tie with controlled calm while his jaw ached from clenching. He kept the camera off during most Zooms now. Just in case. Because if anyone caught the look in his eyes… how could he ever explain this?

Leo on his end wasn't doing any better. For him it was a lot worse, or better depending on the lens. During presentations, Leo found his hand drifting below the table, not by accident, but by that need. He would find himself later palming the center of his gut, pressing into the firmness there like he was checking for weakness, for readiness. It wasn’t subtle and it really wasn't innocent. He needed to feel something. Something close to what was coming. His fingers traced the outlines of his abs through his fitted shirt, slow and greedy, imagining Comhraic’s knuckles slamming into them, splitting the ridges like a sledgehammer carving through soft stone. Ripping him apart like he was wet paper in the hands of screaming child with to much energy. By the time he got home each day, he was flushed. Tight in his pants. Every footfall reverberated through his body like a countdown, one step closer to the moment he would finally break. He caught himself shifting in his seat during meetings, hips pressing forward, his junk already twitching at the thought of Comhraic's fists finding their mark. He had to start carrying spare underwear. In his office drawer. His gym bag. Even the glove compartment of his car. The leaks came too often to ignore now. In cabs. On calls. During client meetings. There were days he couldn’t stand up without adjusting himself discreetly, willing the bulge down with gritted teeth and clenched fists under the table. When home, alone and to himself, he didn’t even bother hiding the truth. He was literally soaked with anticipation. His abs weren’t just muscle anymore. They were a willing sacrifice to the great one. To Comhraic, the wrathful God that would ruin them.

Time would move on, faster at times, painfully slow during others.

Leo caught his reflection in the elevator mirror one evening, lips parted, cheeks pink, tie loosened, pupils wide. He wore that stupid grin for a couple days now, and it had no intention of leaving. He felt like a horny teen again, full of youth and everything that came with it. He laughed, a wild one. To no one and everyone. Comhraic hadn’t even touched him yet, and Leo was already coming undone. Because this wasn’t just better than sex. It was beyond sex. It was something so much better.

And then the day came. No more emails. No more taunts. No more waiting. It was go time.

Leo had to check the address three times before he believed it. This wasn’t just some ordinary New York apartment, or maybe a higher end one. That's what he expected after all. No, this was a Ultra high end living area, ultra modern apartments more lash and expensive then houses, penthouses that would humble kings. It was the kind of place, one of those rarefied spaces that cost more per night than most people earned in a month… maybe even a few months. It made his stomach tighten with anticipation. Comhraic, Kevin, as he learned his so-called civilian name was, had money. Serious money. This place didn’t just reek of wealth, it dripped in it. Inside from what he could see, was wide glass windows. Designer furniture. Air that smelled like filtered silence and imported wood polish.... and that was just the entrance. This was the kind of place where billionaires struck dull, world-altering deals… where mistresses lounged in silk robes, sipping thousand-dollar champagne and saying nothing.

And so Leo stood at the marble entrance of the tower, dwarfed by polished glass and cold steel. The doorman hadn’t even blinked when letting in the woman ahead of him, draped in pearls, heels clicking like she owned the sidewalk. But when Leo stepped forward? The look was immediate. The man in the navy suit shifted, subtly but decisively, stepping into Leo’s path. He was older, lean, silver hair precise as a blade. His shoes probably cost more than Leo’s entire outfit.

“Sir,” the man said, not unkind but firm, “may I ask what your business is here?”

Leo blinked.

He glanced down at himself, dark jeans, white shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled. Clean, crisp, but not this. Not penthouse on Park Avenue level. He looked up again, throat tight. Maybe he should have thought ahead a bit, checked Google maps, tried to wear something that made it almost passable he should be here.

“I’m here to see…” He hesitated, then forced the name out. “Co- uh... Mr. Kevin Malmendo.”

The man’s posture changed instantly, like someone flipped a switch or lit a fire. The doorman's eyes widened a fraction, then softened. He straightened to full height, hands clasping neatly behind his back.

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Leo,” he said, voice lower, smoother. “I meant no disrespect. Of course. Any personal guest of Mr. Malmendo is always welcome here.”

Leo barely managed a nod, still catching up. Still trying to process everything. The door was opened for him without another word, he entered without a second thought. The marble floor gleamed like liquid beneath his steps. The air inside smelled like old money and power plays. Inside, the lobby was cathedral like, vaulted ceilings, sculpted glass, not a fingerprint in sight. The kind of place where silence and manners wasn’t just expected, it was curated. Leo moved carefully across the marble floor, the faint tap of his boots sounding far too loud. Everything felt too clean, too quiet. His breath fogged in the cool, conditioned air. He didn’t belong here. Even his own reflection in the polished steel elevator doors looked like an impostor. Muscles taut under his shirt, jaw set like stone, but still, every step made him feel like he was being watched.

And he was.

A second man, this one behind the sweeping front desk, rose from his seat with precise efficiency. Tall, dark suit, tie perfectly knotted, eyes sharp as glass. Tone suggesting annoyance, and couldn’t be bothered.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, voice calm but laced with unspoken scrutiny. “May I help you?”

Leo resisted the urge to fidget, his brain took over and repeated itself. Worked already right?

“I’m here to see Mr. Kevin Malmendo.”

The reaction was instant. The man’s spine straightened. His face softened, no, shifted, into something more formal, almost apologetic. He bowed his head just slightly, like a courtier addressing royalty.

“Of course,” he said. “Please, allow me to escort you.”

Leo blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. But the man was already moving, stepping out from behind the desk and walking with perfect posture beside him, guiding him toward a private elevator tucked behind a gold-paneled alcove. A quiet chime, the doors slid open, and together they rode to the top in silence. The attendant didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make small talk. When they reached the penthouse floor, the man stepped out first and walked ahead, leading Leo down a lush, carpeted hallway lined with art Leo didn’t recognize but was sure cost more than most homes. Finally, they stopped in front of a single, dark wood door.

“Mr. Malmendo is expecting you,” the attendant said. “Do enjoy your stay with us sir.”

Then, he bowed. A real bow. Low, respectful, practiced. And just like that, he turned and walked away without another word. Leaving Leo alone. Heart pounding. Staring at the door. He took a deep breath, steadied himself.

Leo announced his arrival with a small, proper, polite knock at the door. Kevin opened the door, a moment later, in a tailored charcoal suit, no tie, and a grayish shirt that showed off in all the right places. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show a line of forearm muscle and ink. He looked like a CEO who'd built his empire by stepping over bodies, one of which might still be twitching. His face was calm. Too calm. But behind his eyes, Leo could feel it even now, was a beast pacing. They shook hands, both firm and measured.

"Mr Leo, finally. " Kevin said, his voice low, polite. Smooth gravel.

"Mr Malmendo, a pleasure." Leo replied, tone level, professional, the name tasting like a prelude.

The door closed behind them with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. They stood there. Still. Two professionals. Still wearing the masks of their daily lives. But just beneath the surface, their blood was starting to boil. Leo’s pulse thudded like a drumline behind his calm exterior. Kevin’s hands twitched once, just once, before settling back to his sides like wolves curling their paws before a strike. The room felt too small, too quiet. The walls pressed in with anticipation. Because what was about to happen wasn’t just a fight. It was indulgence. It was two men shedding civility one layer at a time. Two bodies about to speak the only language that ever could truly satisfied them.

For a moment, the air in the suite was reverent. For a moment it was silent, it was hot, it was intoxicating. It brought weight to the moment like something ancient was stirring in the walls. Ancient and primal. Kevin circled Leo slowly, eyes narrowed, exploring like a archeologist, or a meat cutter. His movements were like a predator, calm, composed, but with just enough menace in his shoulders to send a chill down Leo’s spine. Pure anticipation. Neither spoke, they didn't have too. Kevin stopped behind Leo, gaze dragging from the nape of his neck down the ridge of his spine. The crisp white fabric seem to cling anew, cling differently, cling tightly to Leo’s frame. A smirk formed, now up close, it was thin enough to hint, tight enough to outline. Every movement Leo made, every breath he drew, gave the shirt new topography. The ripple of abs here, a faint twitch of pecs there. Kevin had to suppress the growl growing in him.

Kevin’s hand rose, the rest of the world seem to bleed away, leaving only the two.

He placed it flat against Leo’s chest. Not hard, just enough to feel. The heat of Leo's body soaked through the cotton. Kevin licked his lip, as his eyes caught on Leo’s beard. Not as thick as his own, but dark, full, sharp along the jawline. It framed Leo’s face like armor, but with enough softness to be a distraction. Kevin almost smirked, almost. The contrast thrilled him, just rugged enough to tempt touch, to scrape against a chest, a thigh, a belly slick with sweat. The thought nearly unraveled his focus, but no other things had to come first. His palm, yes that was on Leo's chest. Kevin willed it to press in slowly, dragging downward, fingers splayed to map the contours hidden beneath the shirt. He moved with reverence, but also hunger. Worshiping, and exploring what would be his. The drag of Kevin’s hand was slow. Purposeful. He didn’t just feel the muscle beneath, he studied it. Felt the catch in Leo’s breath. The slight tremble under skin. His fingertips lingered over the sternum, dipped lower, tracing the edge of the ribcage like he was memorizing the fault lines of a planet he was about to crack in half.

Leo tried not to shiver, he failed.

Kevin’s fingers drifted lower, continuing the exploration into the unknown, but most wanted. It happened along the taut stretch of Leo’s abdomen, over the hard line of the V-cut beneath the belt. Kevin didn’t dip lower, not yet, but he kept the threat of that experience there. Alive. A promise of what wouldn't be held back when the time was right. Leo’s eyes fluttered for a moment. His prick twitched against the seam of his jeans. Leo was being seen and admired. Flirted with and Scanned. Evaluated like prey before the strike. Evaluated and found worthy. Kevin leaned in slightly, his breath brushing Leo’s ear. Still was silent, still was composed. The energy shifted again. The politeness slipped away. The civility. The masks they wore so well. The monster underneath were stirring, ready to come out and play. The tension curled tighter. Ready to snap. Leo didn’t step back. He leaned into it.

"I'm impressed," Kevin finally murmured, voice low and husky, like gravel stirred in whiskey. And changing… His fingers trailed down just to the edge of the waistband. "Read about you, learned what people thought of you. You're hungry like me."

Leo let out a short breath. “Maybe more...”

That made Kevin, but almost Comhraic, grin.

Kevin, hard with desire, with yearning, with demand, moved behind Leo, hands now at the hem of Leo's shirt, lifting. Slow. Not rushed, not frenzied, deliberate. Like a priest undressing a statue. No, like a worshiper revealing an altar built for sacrifice. Kevin's fingers brushed skin as he pulled upward, not by accident, but intention. Leo’s whole body tensed beneath the touch, abs tightening in anticipation, each ridge standing out firm beneath the fabric. There was a fine layer of body hair dusting his chest and stomach, barely enough to obscure the muscle, but just enough to accentuate it. It caught the low light, glistening faintly from the shower’s residue. It wasn’t soft per say. It wasn’t smooth either. But it was there, real, masculine and raw. Kevin continued, dragging the shirt upward in slow motion, letting his knuckles trace the groove between Leo’s abs, turn above. He paused slightly just above the navel. Appreciation. The shirt slid over each muscle like it was reluctant to part, clinging just long enough to make it feel like a tease.

Leo raised his arms obediently, his breath caught somewhere deep in his chest. He fought to hold back a moan, one of so many, that wanted to follow the drag of those fingers. The shirt came free and dropped to the floor with a soft whisper of cotton. Kevin's, and him, gaze devoured the canvas in front of him. The muscle. The glistening skin. The hair. The proud swell of pectorals and the deep valley of core strength carved beneath them. Leo was a perfect sculpture of pain and want. A flawless punching bag. And Kevin’s fists were already aching to bless it.

The scene shifted again, the dance was progressing but not done. Leo stepped in close, so close he could smell the skin beneath the cologne. Not the store bought scent, not the rich man performance, but the truth under it: soap, heat, sweat, and something darker. Something very male. And then of course there was the beard. Leo’s gaze flicked upward, just for a second, but it hit him hard. Thick. Dark. Unapologetic. It wasn’t trimmed for neatness, it was sculpted for intimidation. A shadow across Kevin’s face that hinted at primal urges just waiting to rip loose. Gods, Leo wanted to feel it, dragging across his chest, he ribs, his thighs, his ...everything. That beard wasn’t just a feature. It was a tool of deep pleasure. Leo swallowed, pulse pounding low in his belly. He imagined how it would scratch against skin already bruised, how it might burn against his neck after a deep breath, a bite, a growl. The thought alone made his lower head twitch, his abs tighten. He didn’t try to hide it. He wanted it to be seen. It was all part of this ritual after all. Speaking of which, his thoughts returned to his fingers. His fingers were now brushing the edge of Kevin’s collar, hesitated for a breath, then slid the blazer back over those broad, solid shoulders. The fabric fell away like an offering, pooling at the man’s feet. Leo's fingertips lingered at the curve of each deltoid, feeling the power bunched beneath. Kevin’s body radiated heat. Power. Manhood. The shirt beneath was thin, stretched faintly over muscle that didn’t come from gym mirrors and posing, it came from war. From pain. From legacy.

Leo’s hands were trembling now, or again, from anticipation so intense it bordered on holy. Like he was undressing something sacred. And in a way he was. He reached for the hem of Kevin’s shirt, an expensive slate-gray piece, soft and seamless, no buttons to fumble, just sleek fabric clinging to the power underneath. His heart thundered in his chest, echoing in his ears as his fingers curled beneath the bottom edge. He hesitated for only a second. The material peeled upward, rising over a stomach that tensed beneath his touch. As the fabric moved, a trail of dark body hair came into view, thick, coarse, lightly matted from heat. It didn’t obscure the muscle, hell no, it framed it. Accentuated it. Made the raw mass of Kevin’s body look even more powerful, more male. The shirt clung briefly to his pecs before Leo tugged it higher. Leo wasn't done, he wanted to see all of it. Leo dragged the shirt over Kevin’s shoulders and arms with care, reverence in every motion. It was less like undressing a man, and more like unveiling a weapon. Kevin raised his arms without a word. Leo’s hands lingered at the wrists as he pulled the shirt free.

And then, it was gone. The fabric dropped to the floor like it had never mattered.

Kevin stood before him, bare chested. Muscles flexed subtly as he inhaled. The hair that curled over his chest tapered into a line that pointed down, disappearing into the top of tailored slacks that looked ready to split from tension. Leo’s breath caught. His boys throbbed behind his waistband, but the rush didn’t send him spiraling. It centered him. Like his body had accepted what his soul already knew, he wasn’t just aroused. He was in awe. And he didn’t look away. He blinked, like he saw everything for the first time. The light caught every scar, every vein, every shimmer of sweat still gathering along the grooves of his abs. His nipples were hard. His chest rose and fell with calm control. It was glorious.

This part of the dance, of the ritual, was complete. Kevin stepped away, but only for a moment. Not gone. Not entirely. A trace of him lingered in the air, simmering beneath the surface. He crossed the room in silence and returned with two pairs of gloves. Thick. Black. Worn from war. He tossed one set to Leo without a word, the leather landing with a heavy, intimate thud. Then he began slipping his own on, methodical, precise. Like a butcher sharpening his knives before the cut.

“I usually go bare fist.”

Leo raised an eyebrow as he said this with but the tiniest hint of disappoint in his voice. The effect, or one should say reaction, was immediate. Kevin’s expression shattered like glass under a hammer. In a blink, the man Leo had just undressed, the polished consultant, the charming illusion in slacks and silk, was gone. What replaced him was pure violence wearing skin.

Comhraic.

The name didn’t need to be spoken. It hung, thick, electric, like smoke curling before the blaze. The air changed. The temperature changed. So did he. Kevin disappeared in a breath. What remained was Comhraic, unleashed. His posture dropped low and loose, like a predator scenting blood. Wanting blood. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing color. The veins in his arms flared, chest rising with a slow, hungry calm that felt more like warning than breath. His body, already powerful, now looked weaponized, a temple built for destruction. Leo loved it. Loved every single Gods damn second of it. He didn't flinch when the hand slammed to his throat. Didn’t panic when his back hit the wall with a sharp thud that made the frame tremble. The forearm came next, dragged across his chest in a slow grind, not a strike, but a promise. It landed beneath his collarbones like a steel restraint, holding him in place. Bare skin on bare skin. Heat met heat. Their eyes collided. Fury. Heat. Worship. A storm not yet named. Leo’s member stirred again, thickening as pain laced with pleasure, with meaning.

“You earn my fists boy”

Comhraic growled, his voice no longer a human voice. It was something ancient crawling up from the earth. Animistic? Eldritch horror? All the above? It was slow. It was Rough. It was molten steel dipped in thunder.

“You survive the gloves first. Then you feel my skin.”

Leo didn’t flinch, nor did he look away. Leo smiled. It wasn’t smug, it wasn’t even a brave display. It was hunger. It was ecstasy. It was exactly what Leo wanted. What both wanted. He, Comhraic, let his eyes drop, just for a moment, and saw it: the sharp bulge straining under Leo’s waistband. So much more profound now. He let out a low, vicious chuckle.

“That,” he said, voice like a hungry man at a feast, “comes later boy. When I give permission.”

Leo let out a shaky exhale, flushed and aroused in every cell of his body. He fought to kept control, to stop himself from exploding right there. Comhraic stepped back. Leo barely had time to brace. The last part of the dance was done, now the fun began. Not with a whisper, but with a-

THWUMP.

The sound split the air like a war drum. Sharp and alive. Not muffled, not dulled. It hit with clarity both raw and pure. It was like a bell being rung in the center of Leo’s body. It was a declaration of what was to come. The first of many gloved hits slammed into Leo’s core, dead center, a ruthless, dense strike that vibrated through his ribs and up and down his spine. Leo’s body jolted against the wall. Arms spread wide, back arched slightly from the blast. But he didn’t fold, he didn’t flinch. He absorbed it. No scream, no gasp, but damn did he moan. Low. Guttural. Like a man starved for weeks, months, years, now finally tasting something divine. His head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, the veins in his neck pulling tight as his abs clenched, pulsed, welcomed the blow. It wasn’t just impact, it was feeding. His body was a plant and Comhraic’s fist the sun. And he drank it in like it was salvation. Comhraic watched it all, the change of expression, the acceptance of the gift. All the while, his glove remained, sunk into Leo’s abs like it belonged. The resistance in Leo’s core was coiled steel, thick cables wrapped in flesh, but it held. Vibrated even. Comhraic could feel the aftershock humming in his wrist. Leo opened his eyes slowly, mouth parted, chest rising.

"Not bad," he said, voice husky with desire and pride.

Comhraic’s brow rose.

"Not bad?"

The words came like a warning. Or a promise. Leo’s grin was wolfish.

"You're gonna have to do better if you want me on my knees, champ."

Comhraic chuckled darkly, head tilting just enough to crack the tension in his neck. The sound echoed like a gun being cocked.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he said, pulling the glove back slowly, deliberately, only to draw his fist again.

"You’re not walking out of here upright, even still breathing is optional."

Leo just braced himself, abs flexing again, eyes daring.

"Then stop flirting and prove it."

The second punch came without pause, without pity.

THWACK!

A savage left cross, low and fast, slammed just above Leo’s navel. It was angled, mean, meant to move something. It did, and it wasn't just the feeling down south. Leo’s body twisted hard with the blow, his side whipping into the wall with a dull thud. The air was driven from his lungs in a hot, guttural grunt, raw enough to raise goosebumps along Comhraic’s spine. It wasn’t a cry of pain, it was release. A man feeling every inch of it of what he wanted, what he needed. Leo staggered, but only just. One foot scraped back, anchoring. He exhaled sharp through his nose, a hiss like steam off boiling steel. Then, he straightened, slowly, deliberate, as if put on for show, but something more. His head turned with a flick of sweat soaked hair, and his eyes locked back onto Comhraic’s.

"I said... not bad." Leo’s voice was gravel, loaded and dangerously seductive.

He tilted his head, lips curling.

"I didn’t say stop."

Oh, hell.

Comhraic’s grin turned carnivorous. Dark. Wide. Wrong. This was the moment where pain blurred into something else. Where gloves became instruments. Where Leo stopped being a man and started being a worthy target, a temple to be ruined. This was the part Comhraic lived for, not just the domination, but the resistance. The stubborn dare. Leo wasn’t some glass statue waiting to shatter. He wasn’t fragile.

He was a monument, and he was begging to be cracked open. Comhraic took a step forward, gloves flexing.

"Good." His voice was low thunder.

"Because I’m just getting started."

BOOM.
THUD.
CRACK.

Three blow, three hits, three prayers of pain, in rapid succession. The first drove up under the ribs, sharp, cruel, meant to break, snap, pierce. To drive out air and leave a man in a state between unconscious and bliss. The second, a straight digging, drilling blow to the upper abs, just beneath the sternum. The third landed slightly off center, hips torqued for maximum drive. A hit meant to fold a man, to stop them and end them. But Leo didn’t. Leo twisted sure, recoiled even, braced for what came, but never gave. His torso, his whole body, snapped back into position each time like it had something to prove, or like nothing ever happened. His jaw locked as his eyes flared with something... Craving. Sweat bloomed across Leo's chest like a fever breaking. Shiny trails ran through the light fuzz of hair down his chest continuing south, catching in the valleys between his abs. He was glistening now, flushed, tight, vibrating from the punishment. And still very much standing. Comhraic’s gloves kept moving, with purpose and no hesitation, no mercy. A rhythm like death metal. Left. Right. Left again. The leather didn’t so much strike as penetrate, each punch driven with the kind of precision you saw in butchers or surgeons. No windup. No warning. No wasted motion. Just brutal, calculated impact. Glove met muscle. Again. Again. Leo’s back was flattened to the wall, shoulders thudding like a heartbeat against concrete. His heels skidded across the floor as his entire body rocked with every blow. Each hit tore the air from his lungs in harsh bursts, breath coming now in fast, shredded gasps. Sweat flowed in rivulets down his chest and into the waistband of his jeans, but his gaze, Gods, that gaze, never left Comhraic’s.

It was hunger. Worship. War.

Comhraic’s gloves blurred, punching on instinct now. Violence on autopilot. The sound of leather meeting flesh filled the room like music from hell’s chapel. It echoed off the walls, vicious and wet.

Leo’s abs rippled with every hit, muscle clenching and rolling, flexing like it was alive beneath the skin. His core trembled, pushed harder than any man had ever dared. But there were no bruises. No split skin. No purple blooming like crushed fruit. Just red warmth and defiance. Comhraic noticed that.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Maybe, probably, more. And still not a mark to show for it. Not a single rupture of flesh. Just that same gleaming, unbroken wall of abdominal muscle, soaked in sweat, refusing to yield. It wasn’t just impressive, it was infuriating. It was perfect. He had to shift his stance again, to hide the growing pressure in his shorts. His, to be honest his pocket rocket at this point, throbbed behind the waistband like it wanted in on the fight. Leo was no better. He didn’t even try to hide it.

It turned Comhraic on more than he’d ever admit.

One hit. A single, merciless drive straight into the center mass. The glove sank deep, met with no softness. No, just coiled tension and tempered steel. The impact echoed, a dull, meaty thud that shook through Leo’s core like a detonated charge. His gut didn’t just clench, it responded, drawing tight, drawing in the violence like it had been waiting for it. Two hits. Lower now. More vicious. Comhraic adjusted, targeting the abdominals just above the waistband with succulent cruelty. The strikes were close, deliberate, punishing. Leo’s breath hitched, hips jerking forward in a grotesque invitation. Three. Left, then right, then left again. Each slamming just under the ribs with bone rattling impact. Leo’s body buckled, folded a bit, but didn’t drop. His spine arched slightly, the wall catching him as his breath hissed, vibrated and glowed between clenched teeth. Eyes flickered, glassy, not from pain but from restraint. Something primal clawed at the inside of his skull, begging for so much more. Four. A shot under the sternum, a blow to each side, a uppercut high and cruel. They all landed like a branding iron, and Leo’s head snapped back against the wall. Again, harder this time. His mouth parted, a sound slipping loose, neither groan nor gasp. A confession and honesty, raw and wanting. His body flexed like a thunderhead about to split, muscle firing in waves under hot skin. Five. Comhraic moved without a word. Each strike slammed into Leo’s core like a pile driver, straight in, no twist, no flair, just purpose. His fists hit like hammers, pounding the same spot over and over until the wall behind Leo shivered from the transferred force. Leo’s body jolted with every impact, muscle seizing, breath staggered. Six. No hesitation. Dead center again, the place that seemed to scream end me, please end me. Seven. Brutal hooks into the obliques, angled perfectly to grind inside. The impact sang in the air, wet leather, hard breath, the slap of dominance against defiance. Eight. Jabs, no show, straight power. Leo’s abs shook, or more like they quaked. Nine. Comhraic was past thought now, balls deep in the pleasure of pain. A thing of motion and violence, gloves firing into Leo from every angle. Gut drills that hollowed his target, uppercuts that wanted to dig deep, like drilling for oil far to deep in the earth. Ten. Disgusting slams just above the navel, deep enough to knock the air out of most men. Leo folded slightly, just a twitch at the hips, then flexed back upright with a gasp and a moan tangled into one.

A pause, a moment, a continue.

Comhraic stopped counting, stopped caring. This wasn’t a drill anymore, it was descent into maddess they neither were leaving. The punches came like thunder in a storm without pattern, without mercy, without a single fuck to give. There would be, and was no rhythm, just raw unsupervised punishment. One glove slammed into Leo’s upper abs, deep and cruel, compressing his diaphragm in a single jolt that forced a hiss and a moan. Before the air could return, another crashed low, just above the waistband, sharp and vicious like a blade with no edge, digging straight into his gut. A third came from the side, slamming into his obliques and yanking a half step out of him. Leo’s torso twisted. His knees dipped. His abs flexed like solid rock under pressure, straining, desperate not to give, not to fail. Then came the fourth. A savage thud echoed through the room as Comhraic’s glove sank into the center of Leo’s core like it belonged there. The blow winded Leo and also slammed his spine back into the wall. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound came, only a staggered gasp, a ghost of breath slipping from his lips like a dying confession. His words were gone. His thoughts were unraveling. And still, his body begged louder than he ever could. Leo didn’t scream, he wouldn't not yet. He didn’t fold either, no he burned brighter than any sun. His eyes blown wide, pupils swallowed in black, he stared up at Comhraic like he wasn’t looking at a man, but a God, or a monster, or both. His lips parted, tried to speak, but only shallow, trembling breath escaped. It was hot. Shaky. Ripe with need. The kind of need that devoured reason and replaced it with something feral.

“Fucking hell” Comhraic breathed, stepping back a half pace to take in the sight before him. His chest rose slowly. Measured. Like he was trying not to lose control, this was all barely controlled insanity after all. “You’re not normal.”

Leo’s head rolled forward, sweat tracing slow paths down his neck. His abs pulsed with each breath, bruise-less, flushed, amazing. He gave a rough, breathless laugh that scraped out like smoke from fire.

“I get that a lot,” he muttered, voice husky, tinged with something darker than pride.

Comhraic began to circle him, deciding where to bite next. His gloves creaked, leather tight and sweat slicked, with each small flex. Every step, every breath was to broadcast a message: You’re still standing and that’s a challenge.

“I’ve broken men,” Comhraic said, tone flat, betraying nothing. “Fighters. Bouncers. A soldier once, he didn’t even last a round.”

Leo lifted his gaze, eyes half-lidded, gleaming with pain and something obscene. His lips curled into a grin not made for daylight.

“I’m not them,”there was bite in the words. A dare. A promise.

Comhraic stopped in front of him, the air shifted. That look passed between them, one built from tension, blood, heat. A silent vow written in glances and signed in blood.

“No” Comhraic murmured, voice dropping into something deep and barely human. “You’re much better.”

Leo’s response was to lift his arms. Not in surrender, not to show off, but in readiness. And just like that, Comhraic was back in motion. The dance began again.

BOOM.
THUMP.
CRUNCH.

There was another side hook tore into the obliques, the squishing sound rocked both, visibly showing on both abs and strain down south alike. Then came a straight shot, no flair, no grace, just raw power slamming into the gut like a steel Mecha arm in anime. Then the uppercut came. It wasn't just a punch, not like the countless already experienced. This punch, this weapon of desire, detonated in Leo's core like a bomb going off. Leo’s feet left the ground, barely a inch or two, but it might as well have been flight. His body jackknifed around the fist, his spine bowing, his abs folding in around the violence like they were trying to strangle the pain. His entire body seized, locked, screamed. Inside, organs shifted. His stomach twisted in on itself, a brutal churn like it was trying to crawl up his throat and escape the carnage. His diaphragm spasmed, lungs crushed, vision flared black at the edges.

And Leo, Leo laughed.

Or maybe he moaned.

No, he did both.

It came out raw, cracked wide open, a sound born from a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had just gotten it. Gotten is first real taste of it. Because the pain wasn’t pain anymore. Not to him, not to Leo. It transcended the human experience, it became a divine gift. It was scrawled in agony and written in bloodless trauma. More punches rained down, precision unyielding destruction. Hook, jab, slam. Jab, left, right. Jab, jab, uppercut. The sounds were obscene: wet leather on sweating flesh, ribs creaking beneath tension, air hammering out of lungs only to be denied again.

Another pause, another moment, then came a barrage, more brutal than before.

A left hook. A right jab. Another hook, this one low and mean, the kind that aimed to rupture resolve and insides. Leo’s body jerked with each one, but his legs held. Intoxicating, sensational. Comhraic’s gloves moved faster, tighter, more precise. Another uppercut. Deeper. Sharper. It drove into Leo’s belly like it was trying to unearth something hidden. Leo bent at the waist, ready to finally double over for real, only for Comhraic to slam him upright again with a punch from hell. It echoed like bodies dropped in an empty hall. Like screams in a haunted house. Rapid fire hits now, blows meant for a speed bag, not a man. Left, right, center, high, low. Thudding, pounding, tearing through willpower. Each one found a different part of Leo’s core. His upper abs clenched. His lower abs twitched. His obliques spasmed.

Still, he stayed standing. Still he was unmarked.

Leo dipped forward slightly from the last gut-crushing blow, still somehow laughing through clenched teeth. Comhraic stepped in close, couldn’t resist the moment. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Leo’s ear, his voice thick with sadistic glee:

“I will break you boy. I will make sure of it.”

Leo’s grin split wide, wild and unafraid.

“Promise?”

Comhraic smiled, beamed with the same passion kids would when the parents were away. When left with no adult supervision to say no. The gloves stayed on. God, Comhraic wanted them off, wanted to tear them free, throw them aside, touch what he’d been beating. To trade blunt force for bare handed possession. But not yet. Not yet. The ritual wasn’t done. The offering wasn’t complete. So the gloves remained, but not as protection, but as instruments. Weapons of worship. Leather bound confessions slamming into muscle that refused to yield. Each blow was a sermon. Each strike, a psalm in a brutal gospel. Again. Again. Pounding to break to carve divinity or madness into a man’s flesh by force alone. Comhraic’s fists moved like scripture, writing pain into Leo’s body with perfect, pitiless rhythm. The gloves weren’t gear anymore. They were godsends, and they would continue!

THWACK.

The next blow plunged beneath Leo’s sternum with sickening joy. It didn’t just land, it burrowed, sinking past flesh into something vital. Leo arched into it like a man possessed, spine bending in silent reverence to the pain. His breath fled, his core convulsed.

Comhraic didn’t follow up. Not yet.

He stepped back, just a hair, gaze locked to the trembling wreck of Leo’s midsection. He watched the aftermath, how the muscle seized, fluttered, then pulled tight like it was trying to swallow the pain. Consume it for lust and joy like it was Kirby or something. The skin twitched, the lines of his core flickered like a map re-drawing itself. A trembling altar asking for another offering. That offering, it happened faster than thought, an instinct, not intention. Comhraic’s glove came in from low and wide, weight behind it, hips snapping with brutal torque. It was the kind of shot that didn’t end fights, it ended careers. A killer’s blow. The kind you regret before it even lands. The sound was obscene. Not the usual thud of glove meeting flesh. This was deeper. Like bone whispering to bone. The impact landed just beneath Leo’s sternum, angled up and inward, aimed like a stake through the heart of his core. Leo’s body lifted again, his feet off the ground. Air gone. Voice gone. His back slammed into the wall with a hollow thump. For a moment, too long a moment, he didn’t move. His arms dropped to his sides. His face went blank.

Comhraic froze.

“Fuck.... Come on fucker, you're not done!“

Then Leo laughed.

It started low. Broken. A sound pushed through crushed lungs and spasming diaphragm. But it built. Became more. Became feral. His eyes snapped open, filled with wet gleam and raw hunger. His abs convulsed, his body shook.

“That” Leo hissed, voice shredded and shaking, “that’s the one I'm going to beat off to tonight.”

“You're not... supposed to like that,” Comhraic growled, sweat starting to bead on his neck and shoulders. He wasn't sure if he was annoyed, insulted or turned on in a way he could never come down from. Maybe all the above...

“I don’t.”

A pause.

“I need it... and I fucking love it. Now shut the fuck up and keep going.”

BOOM.

A brutal right hook, Leo’s torso snapped to the side. He let out a gasp, it was of bliss, but twisted and warped into something perverse. Comhraic was breathing harder now, his body hot, firing on all cylinders. He had fought for years, but this, this was something else. He was punching a man into paradise. It was a welcome change, a welcome diversion from life. Another shot, this time having the glove sink just above Leo’s waistband. Comhraic pushed in with it, crushing into the wall of lower abs with a sick, wet thud. The leather barely bounced off, barely retreated before the next one landed. A left hook slammed into his side, wide, wild and tight. Aimed like exploding scalpel against battered muscle. Skin slapped muscle, muscle flexed against force, the whole torso jolting from the shock. Then came the third. A dead center straight that struck like a hammer to an anvil. A fourth blow carved upward, just beneath the sternum, right where the ribs begin to open. The glove angled in like it was trying to tunnel deeper, to find the hidden soft beneath the armor. Next was a gut hook with all the weight of Comhraic’s hips behind it. The kind of hit that snapped bodies in half if they weren’t built for it. But Leo had already proven he could take it, so take it again he would. Leather met flesh with a noise more like a collision than a punch, a moment of violence captured in flesh. Wonderful.

Yet still, there were no bruises. None. Not a blotch. Not a blemish. His abs remained smooth, tight, and impossibly firm, like they were made to dare fists to break them for eternity. Even Comhraic's most devastating shots, the kind that had dropped seasoned men to the mat or left them puking, bounced with no permanent mark.

THUD.

THUMP.

WHAM.

The punches kept coming. Left jab, right hook, two quick body shots

"Harder" Leo demanded.

Comhraic stepped in again, gloved fist driving in low, just above the pelvis. Leo moaned again, longer this time, throaty, rising from the pit of his stomach like a drawn-out song. The pleasure was changing. It wasn’t dirty anymore. It was euphoric. Pure. Raw. Almost... beautiful in its release.

“Harder,” Leo growled again.

BAM!

CRACK!

WHAM!

“Fucking harder, are you a man or a bitch!”

Comhraic’s control snapped like a stretched cord. He slammed two punches into Leo’s core, one after the other, blunt, vicious, heavy shots that would’ve dropped almost anyone. Leo buckled, but didn’t fall. Didn’t crack. He quivered. He shook. And then he laughed, ragged, wild, lustful.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Leo moaned, voice trembling as he rocked forward, pressing his sweat slick abs against the glove still held at his belly.

“Fuck…” Comhraic hissed under his breath.

He felt it, his manhood pushing thick and hot against the inside of his shorts again. Every fiber of his body was lit up, humming with a rage-laced arousal that blurred the lines between fight and fuck. Leo was worse, because of course he was. His own arousal was extremely visible now. The sweat clinging to his waistline only made it more obscene. His trunks tented hard, twitching with each impact, hips subtly grinding forward as if searching for more.

“Remember why I am here? I want to keep feeling you,” Leo gasped. “I want you to fucking ruin me.”

BOOM.

Another punch, straight on, deep and hard. Leo may screamed, may have yelled, may have gasped. What ever the sound it wasn't human, it was... something else. It was matched in shock an awe only by the now visable cracks in the wall behind Leo. It didn't matter, money was present to fix it, and such was a concern for Kevin, for later. Comhraic stepped back, panting, his chest rising and falling. Sweat dripped down his arms, soaked the waistband of his shorts. Leo’s entire self glistened now, rivulets of sweat tracing the grooves of his abs like paint on stone. They stared at each other. Two men drunk off contact.

“Still standing, handsome” Leo panted, chest slick and shining. “Need me to beg some more?”

Comhraic’s fist rose again, slow, trembling with restraint. Not from fatigue. From the force of everything he wanted to unleash next.

“You’ll get more” he said darkly.

Leo's smile returned, wild, wrecked, needing.

“Good” he whispered.

The next punch was already coming.

 

They came one after another, a line, a continuation of punishment that rivaled any assembly line. Leo staggered, mid blow, somewhere at the twenty count. His stomach folding in on itself as Comhraic’s fist buried deep, low, right into the thickest part of his gut. It didn’t bounce off. It sank. Hard. Deep. Blunt force trauma packed in with the precision of a man who knew exactly what the human body could take, and what it couldn't. Leo’s abs, once proud and taut, now quivered beneath the constant barrage. The muscle had held, still no bruising, still no marks, but something finally changed. Comhraic could feel it. The ache turning molten. Leo could feel it. His core throbbed with raw heat, as if his insides were being slowly tenderized, pounded again and again, each strike blurring the line between strength and suffering. Then came the set that did it. A flurry of gut punches, vicious, deliberate, savory. Like the best part of a steak. A left hook to the obliques, a straight shot into the solar plexus, an uppercut then two, followed by a hammering glove that drove the wind from his lungs with a gasp. Leo finally folded. Total, complete, undoubted. Leo doubled over, gloves weakly on his knees, forehead brushing against Comhraic’s chest on the way down. His breath came in ragged, starved pulls. His vision spun. There was a dull ringing in his ears. He didn’t know whether to straighten back up or drop to his knees and blow the man.

Comhraic made the choice for him.

A glove grabbed a handful of Leo’s hair, not gently, and yanked. The next moment, Leo was upright again, chest exposed, abs trembling and soaked in sweat, arms limp at his sides. His face was slack with exertion, lips parted, flushed, beautiful in ruin. Then the beating continued. Comhraic didn’t pause. Didn’t pity. He drove his gloves in again, and again, each hit painting Leo’s core with invisible strokes of pain and glory. The room echoed with the rhythm. The walls cracked more. Wet smacks, shallow gasps, and low grunts continued. Leo didn’t resist. He welcomed it. He welcomed more of it.

BOOM.

The next, how many now, punch landed with a sickeningly perfect sound, dense, clean, unstoppable. Leo’s body jackknifed against the wall and then snapped back into place like a machine built for this exact purpose. He gasped, deep and guttural, but his eyes rolled again, mouth slack with something far from agony.

“More.”

His voice was low now, guttural, soaked in lust and fire. A growl. Comhraic's gloves creaked as his fingers tightened. He was dripping now, rivulets of sweat rolled down his shoulders, soaked into the elastic of his waistband. His thighs flexed involuntarily. His gloves wanted to punch. His hips wanted to thrust. He did both.

THUD. THWACK. THUMP.

Another flurry. A left jab to the upper abs. A hook into the ribs. A straight body shot so deep Comhraic thought he felt Leo’s spine on impact.

"Yes..." Leo groaned. "Deeper. Fucking, yes. Do it again."

Comhraic's entire body was on fire, for never, ever, had he wanted a man like this. Leo's chest was drenched in sweat now, trails glistening over each ab ridge, his shorts soaked down the sides, clinging to his hips. The raging beast in there, the flagpole of raw pulsing need barely contained by the tight fabric. And that sound, those moans... Each one was more refined now. Controlled. Almost crafted. Like music composed for the exact rhythm of Comhraic’s gloves. Moans that vibrated in the gut and groin, calling to something primal, something forbidden. Comhraic could barely keep himself from tearing the gloves off and...

No.
Not yet.

He snarled and launched another right straight into Leo. Into his body, into his soul.

CRACK.

Leo shuddered. His head whipped back.

“FUCK, YES,” he growled, voice breaking from the strain of euphoria.

And then, oh hell, it happened. Comhraic's eyes locked on Leo’s midsection, and there, just beneath the edge of the sternum...

A faint red.
A mark.

The first bruise.

A single smoldering reminder that even Leo’s godlike body could be reached. Touched. Ruined. Finally, Gods damn ruined! Comhraic stared at it like a worshiper glimpsing divinity. Leo looked down, his eyes locking on it soon after. He saw it, felt it, realized it. Then the bastard moaned. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t guttural. It was pure. Deep. Erotic. Addictive. The sound slipped into Comhraic’s bones like venom and heat. His breath caught. His cock jerked. His restraint shattered into jagged edges. He clenched his fists harder just to stay standing. Leo wasn’t helping. He leaned forward slightly, sweat dripping from his chest, his abs flexing to show off the mark.

"Don’t stop now," he whispered, voice slick with need. “Make me glow.”

Comhraic’s teeth clenched.

Comhraic couldn't remember what came next. He just knew his body moved with the hunger of a man gone feral. The gloves creaked, the air thickened. The first bruise burned in his mind like a promise.

The red spot on Leo’s torso had changed everything, renewed it. It was small, but potent, like the first drop of blood in a feeding frenzy. Comhraic had so much already, but he was still starving for more.

He went to work, gloves snapping forward with brutal purpose. To destroy, to ruin, to sculpt something Each punch targeted just around that mark. Not the same place, no, Comhraic was too much of an artist for that. He let his gloves map the abs around it. He hit the obliques. The upper shelf just under the ribs. The edge of the V-cut down low. Always circling the flame without snuffing it out.

THUMP. THWACK. BOOM.

Leo’s body jerked, clenched, trembled. The sweat continuously flowing in rivulets down his chest, over his ribs, dripping to the floor like the remnants of some violent ritual. The hottest thing however, was still how Leo didn’t beg for mercy. He begged for more.

“Fucking deeper!” Leo barked, voice hoarse, rough, raw with need.

BOOM.

A crushing hook to the side that twisted Leo’s entire torso.
He let out a guttural moan that shook the walls.

The cracks expanding more...

THWACK.

Another uppercut into the space just above the first red mark. The glove sank deep into sweat slick muscle that finally began to show signs of wear, slight dents, shudders, the hint of breakdown beneath the flex. Leo nearly dropped to a knee. He caught himself on the wall, one palm pressed behind him for support, the other sliding unconsciously over his bulge, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

“Yessss,” he hissed, hips grinding into the next blow before it even landed.

Every hit landed harder. Every reaction was louder. Every moan from Leo more intense. Now it was masculine howls of ecstasy, grunts laced with power, with lust, with a deep, animal growl that echoed in Comhraic’s bones. Leo was breaking, and loving it.

“Hit me!” he roared, demanded.

THUD. THUMP. THWACK.

Comhraic could barely see through the sweat in his eyes. His hair clung to his forehead, his gloves felt like they were soaked inside and out. Each punch now came with a grunt of effort, each movement from Leo with a strained moan that slid into a desperate, low growl. The room reeked of sweat, tension, testosterone, and lust. Comhraic’s fist slammed one more time into the wondrous red belly.

CRACK.

Leo gasped. The wind left him, but no cry of pain. Just a trembling smile.

And then,

Finally,

Silence.

Both men panted like beasts in heat. Shoulders rising and falling. Muscles twitching involuntarily. The floor beneath them dotted with sweat. Comhraic’s hands dropped slowly. He stepped in, chest heaving, close enough now that their bodies brushed. His gloves came off, hit the ground with no ceremony. His fists needed to be free, close personal contact had to be made. With careful fingers, he undid Leo’s gloves, slid them off, letting them fall with a heavy thud to the carpet. It wasn't that time yet, but Comhraic desired a taste, a small reward for all thus far. Without a word, he leaned in, tongue out. He licked a single line up Leo’s chest, from the waistband, over the faint red marks, up the groove of his abs, to the base of his pec.

Leo shivered, breath caught in his throat.

It didn’t help, didn't calm. Didn't totally satisfy.

It hurt. In all the best ways.

Comhraic’s hardness, his heat, that one thing that so wanted to explode, throbbed. His pulse pounded. His self-control, dangling by a frayed thread. Leo was no better. He leaned forward, lips brushing Comhraic’s ear, voice barely a whisper:

“You're not done, are you?”

Comhraic didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to. The heat between them was a living thing now, coiling in the space between breath and sweat, pulsing in their clenched fists and twitching muscles. The gloves were off, literally and figuratively, and what came next was no longer play. He grabbed Leo by the wrist and led him through the suite, their footsteps heavy and sure. The bedroom door creaked open. Inside, the room was colder, darker, moonlight slashed across the floor in silver streaks, casting everything in blue and shadow.

Perfect.

Leo was already breathing hard, still slick with the sweat of their first war, his abs red, glistening, marked like a living canvas. But his eyes were wild with hunger. He wanted more. No, he craved it. Comhraic spun him around and pressed him back against the far wall. His knuckles flexed. Bare. Raw. Ready.

“Now we do it proper,” he growled, “You earned it”.

THUD.
THUMP.
CRACK.

Bare knuckles crashed into muscle. There was no padding. No leather barrier. Just man on man.
Flesh meeting flesh. The hard resistance of sculpted abs yielding ever so more under the blunt force of human will. Leo’s body jolted with every blow. His moans, already loud before, were something else now. Richer. Rougher. Torn from deep inside and pushed out with every brutal hit. Pleasure and pain folded into each other until there was no telling them apart.

“Fuuuck yes, YES!”

Leo shouted as a fist landed square in his lower gut, doubling him briefly before he forced himself back upright. Comhraic didn’t let up. He couldn’t. Every impact made him harder. Every reaction from Leo sent a jolt straight to his core. The way Leo’s mouth opened, teeth gritting between grunts of ecstasy. The way his abs twitched under fire, resisting even as they began to give way. The marks were coming now, real bruises. Dark. Purple. Honest. Each new one was a claim. A declaration. Comhraic was here. He had taken what was his. Leo’s hands had slid to his sides now, fists balled tight, his masculinity fully erect and pulsing in the dark.

WHAM.

A cross to the right ab. Leo moaned, chest flexing forward into the next one.

BOOM.

A deep, heavy gut punch. His body shook. Leo was whispering, to himself and his God. He wanted it again and again, like a man praying. Comhraic obliged, obedient in his cruel way, obeyed again. And again. And again. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room like thunder made flesh.
Leo’s back thudded into the wall again and again, but he didn’t fall. He stood. He took. He demanded.

“Hit me harder”

Comhraic did.

“Don’t stop!”

Like that even needed to be said.

“Don’t you dare stop!”

The only way Comhraic was stopping now was if HIS heart stopped. It couldn't, it wouldn't. The sight of bruises blossomed now across Leo’s body, like blooming war flowers, vivid and dark against the shine of sweat-slick skin? No, that would power him for a long time.

It wasn’t just with noise, it was the force, the power, the raw unfiltered display of man. Of two men with no restraint anymore. No guarding, no posturing. Just a man, raw, soaked in sweat, voice ragged, howling for pain like it was oxygen. Then just another man, all to willing to break reality to give it to him.

“HARDER!” Leo screamed, voice thick with lust and fury.

“FUCKING HARDER I SAID”

Blows to his chest once ripe and full. Blows to his rib muscle, tender and raw. Blows to the scarred landscape of Leo's abs. It was a canvas of violence turned beautiful. Purple blooms bled into angry reds. Some marks were fresh. Some already darkening. All of them were gifts, all of them fully earned. And Comhraic, Gods help him, he was high on it. He didn’t feel tired. He didn’t feel sore. He felt like a God. A creator. Nothing else mattered except for the husk of muscle and man in front of him.

CRACK.

Comhraic fist drilled straight into the lower core. A deep, punishing hit.

BOOM.

A brutal shot to the solar plexus that lifted Leo’s heels off the ground.

THUMP.

Leo collapsed forward, but Comhraic caught him, a hand against his throat, pinning him upright again. His other fist cocked back and drove in again. And again. It was a drug, and he would have his fill.

THUMP. THUD. THWACK.

Leo’s voice continued to unravel, plunge deeper into something disturbingly primal, unrecognizable, no longer the polished cadence of a man in control. His humanity was lost, it was now but a savage collage of guttural sounds torn from the depths of his chest. Growls. Ragged moans. Half-Half roars mangled by breathless gasps. There were no words anymore, just the raw language of ruin, vocal cords stretched thin under the weight of everything he wanted. The noise poured out of him like blood, thick with lust and pain, echoing with the kind of need that didn’t belong to civilized men. This wasn’t a man speaking. This was an animal begging the Gods for more thunder.

He was past the edge now, pushed beyond the limits of what flesh and will should allow, and Leo welcomed it. His lower regions leaked without shame, soaking through fabric that clung tight to his twitching thighs.

“FUCK!” Leo roared.

Comhraic lost himself in it. His punches weren’t wild, they were calculated. Each one chosen. Each one designed to test, stretch, bend the limits of a body that refused to die and refused to stop enjoying it. And if there was a moment Comhraic would feel tired? Sore? Maybe ready to stop? Leo’s moans changed everything up again.

They, the moans, came deepened with each impact. They became longer, lower, soaked in release begging to be free. Leo’s body rolled into each punch, like he was chasing them. His hips bucked. His back arched. He bit his lip, his face flushed deep and red.

Then the world stopped for a moment. It was the sound to early, not yet. It was the beginnings of a moan. Not any moan, but that kind of moan. A long, full-bodied, trembling moan. From somewhere buried in his core. It was loud. It was filthy. It was divine. It was a sign Leo was ready.

And Comhraic snapped.

His hand flew forward, not in a punch, but flat, pressed across Leo’s lips, silencing him.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t get to moan yet.”

Leo’s eyes fluttered open, wide, delirious.

“… what…. But… ”

“You hold that in,” Comhraic snarled. “You don’t get to release that until I say. That sound? That’s mine. My property You will earn it when I say you do”

Leo’s twitched hard. His legs nearly buckled. His whole body screamed of a man who wanted to exploded but was trying not to. But he nodded, slow, obedient, teeth clenched. Comhraic stepped back, knuckles bleeding now, sweat pouring down his body like steam. His eyes were locked on Leo’s stomach.

The bruises were a masterpiece.

And he hadn’t even finished the last movement yet.

“Soon,” Comhraic said, voice low, cruel, and hungry. “You’ll have your release soon, when I am done. when I allow it. And it will be soon my boy. ”

Comhraic raised his fist. Leo, good, obedient, willing Leo. He opened his arms, chest forward, silent now, begging without words for that final permission.

In the Christian Bible, it’s mentioned there are several seals that are broken when the end times come. Today, now, this moment, Leo would experience the final seal. It was not a horseman, plague or story unleashed. It was a part of Comhraic that even he saw that needed to be buried long ago.

He knew it was there, always lurking beneath the surface. A dark thing even for him. A predator, far worse than should be, that wasn’t satisfied with dominance. No… this thing wanted devastation. It didn’t fight to win. It fought to obliterate. It wanted to deform the body, to leave it as a mark. A calling card.

Most men couldn’t handle the look. Some broke at the smile.
Others took a hit and never got back up.

But Leo…

Leo asked for it. No, begged for it. With his eyes. With his body. With every trembling, sweat-slicked breath. He had craved the beast. He demanded it with every ounce of being he had left.

“I think I’m in love…. ” he whispered.

BOOM. CRACK. THUD. THUMP. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Fist after fist after fist. Ripping into Leo’s hellish core like thunder into stone, hammering every section of muscle that still dared to hold firm.

Uppercut to the center.
Leo jerked, screamed, slammed into the wall and rebounded.

A short, vicious right into the liver.
His legs buckled. He collapsed halfway, only to be hauled back up by Comhraic’s grip on his waistband.

“Not yet” Comhraic snarled. “Not this close… ”

Two punches to the ribs, one each side.
A deep cross into the navel.
A sickening body hook that sounded like leather meeting a slab of raw meat.

Leo howled. He roared.

His body was wrecked. His abs were black, red, dark purple. Skin glistened, split in small patches. Each bruise radiated heat. Each muscle trembled.
He looked like he’d been through a war, and yet…

“More!”

Leo cried out, voice cracked and hoarse.

“FUCKING MORE! DON’T STOP, PLEASE!”

Comhraic’s vision blurred. His teeth bared. He punched with both hands now, no rhythm, no pattern. Just pain. Just power.

Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Uppercut. Hook. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Leo crumpled.
Comhraic caught him.

Leo smiled… again.

Every inch of Leo shook. The last punch should have dropped him. But somehow, Leo stood. Hands limp. Chest heaving. And with a voice full of ash and devotion:

“Please... sir.... more…”

Comhraic reared back.

Comhraic’s breath slowed. His fist, bruised and slick with sweat, curled tight, knuckles pale, tendons drawn like steel wire. He stepped in close, eyes locked on the center of Leo’s broken, trembling core.

The fist drank deep.

There was no ceremony, no restraint. Comhraic’s whole body came with it. The shoulders, the spine, the dark soul that was firmly in charge. The fist slammed into Leo’s abs with the kind of force that bent the air around them.

Reality stuttered. Sound died. Light dimmed. Time fractured. It sucked in the space around it, like Leo’s body had become the center of a black hole, swallowing the strike whole, warping the very atmosphere in a silent scream. Every knuckle buried deep, deeper than should have been possible. Skin stretched. Muscles folded inward under the pressure, not breaking, but crushing, like an ancient wall finally caving to time. The impact rippled, not just through Leo, but through the room. A pulse, a tremor. A shockwave of raw violence branded into flesh.

Leo screamed.

Everything inside him clenched. Everything in side of him warped, broke, died. His head dropped back.

Comhraic’s fists twitched.
Leo’s abs quivered.

CRACK.

Barely a sound, barely a moan, like life was leaving Leo.

THUMP.

Another hard hit. Movement, slight.

BOOM.

A sickening punch sank into Leo’s lower gut. His abs distorted, visibly warped from the impact. They trembled like torn cables struggling to hold.

Leo’s body shuddered, he had shown extraordinary willpower, but he couldn’t hold it back anymore. The damn had to break. And truth be told, neither could Comhraic. The time would come now, no matter how much they wanted this exchange to continue.

The final punch….

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t wild but it was perfect. Comhraic’s pride, his fist slammed into Leo’s core and sank in, deeper than any punch before. Leo’s entire being folded around the blow, the distorted abs forming a ring around that embedded fist. Comhraic’s free arm wrapped around Leo’s back. Pulled him forward. Now they were locked, flesh to flesh, chest against chest, sweat mixing into a single flood. They joined as one, Comhraic with the only man he would have respect for, Leo with the man who became God.

And then, they both let go.

 

It was at the same time. It was with a passionate cry. It was with a animistic roar. A deep groan. A peaceful moan. It was so many thing but it was ecstasy made real. Given life in the real world instead of just their heads. Comhraic’s legs trembled. Leo’s head slammed forward onto Comhraic's shoulder. The two of them shook with it, hips twitching, chests convulsing, fists clenched in fists, groins erupting with the full force of everything they had denied, they tried to hold back until this moment.

Raw. Shared. Shattering.

They collapsed, but didn’t just fall. More like, they sank, together, held upright only by the other. Their sweat dripped freely, down backs, over legs, pooling around them and together.

A moment passed. Then another.

How many would? Have? Neither knew. Couldn’t know. No words were exchanged. There was only the sound of breath and the steady heartbeat of two men who had gone to war... and found heaven in the wreckage.

They sat there, bodies against each other, still tangled in aftermath. Their breathing, once ragged and raw, had settled into something quieter, but not soft. No, even now it was heavy, charged, reverent. Every breath was a reminder. Of what had been done. Of what had been shared. Sweat clung to them like a second skin. The floor beneath them was slick with it, theirs and each other’s. Their thighs were wet. Their chests streaked in salt. Their shorts… unmistakably soaked in ways neither man bothered to acknowledged. They didn’t need to. It was there. Plain to see. Plain to feel. Completely natural and right for them. It was undeniable.

What had just happened was beyond them. Comhraic finally moved, not fast, not sudden. A shift in his shoulders, a rise from the ground with slow purpose. Leo followed suit, wincing slightly, body stiff, every inch of his battered core protesting. But he didn’t complain. He rose like a man standing from worship.

Still… no one spoke.

Comhraic crossed the room, bare feet slapping gently against the tile. He grabbed towels from the bathroom shelf, laid one over the sink counter, another on the edge of the bed, then one at the foot of the shower stall. A routine gesture. Familiar. Careful. He stepped back. Slid down into the plush leather couch and leaned into it like a lion finally caged again, but only just. He tilted his head slightly.

An invitation.

Leo looked at him. Met his gaze.

No nod. No smile. Just understanding.

Leo stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. No shame. No mystery. There was nothing hidden between them anymore, not after what had been exchanged, what had been endured. Steam began to curl out into the room almost instantly, soft and thick, rising like fog from a battlefield finally quiet.

Comhraic remained on the couch, and may have slipped the gloves back on a few times, maybe for the feeling, maybe as remembrance. Definitively to ground himself. His body may also been heavy, but his eyes alert, drawn. He didn’t just glance. He watched. Fully, openly, like a man who had earned the right to. No need for subtlety now. His head tilted slightly, and his gaze locked on the frame of Leo as it moved through the mist. The stall’s glass was partially clear, and Leo didn’t rush. He stood fully nude under the stream, arms out, head bowed slightly, letting the heat roll over his bruised, marked torso. Water traced every inch of him, over his shoulders, down his chest, across abs that rose and fell with each breath. Every color of pain was there. Deep purples, dark reds, faint green at the edges of older marks. His body was wrecked. And Gods, was it beautiful. Comhraic’s eyes moved slowly, reverently, from the strong lines of Leo’s arms to the firmness of his nicely haired chest, the slope of his ribs, and the curve of his waist. The total destruction of the core, the core he destroyed.

A smile, then eyes going lower.

Comhraic didn’t blink.

Leo was on full display, it hung thick and relaxed, water dripping from its length. The stream split around his thighs, which flexed faintly with every slight shift in his stance. His calves, lean and strong, anchored him like roots. Comhraic drank it all in. Every detail. Every part of him. It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t perverse. It was the way a warrior looked at the battlefield that made him feel alive. His own cock stirred beneath his clothes, responding automatically to the sight, the memory of every punch, every sound Leo had made, now framed by the purity of this quiet moment. But he didn’t move. He didn’t act. Because for the first time in his life, desire didn’t demand action. It didn’t feel urgent. It felt... whole. Satisfied in the watching. Fulfilled just in the existing. Leo, aware, or maybe simply indifferent, turned beneath the water. The stream flowed over the curve of his back, down the tight arch of his glutes, dripping between his legs before trailing down the backs of his thighs. His body was strong, marred, stunning. Comhraic’s hands unclenched at his sides. His lips parted faintly. The moment hung between them. Honest. Unfiltered.

And Comhraic had never felt more at peace.

When Leo returned, he moved back to the bed room. Intent on putting former clothing back on, despite it's unfresh state. With towel loose around his waist, water still clinging to his skin in lazy rivulets, he saw the clothing laid neatly on the edge of the bed. A soft black T-shirt. Smooth drawstring joggers. Comfortable. Expensive. New.

Leo said nothing, but he accepted.

Now, the scene shifted, changed hands. Leo on the observer, Comhraic heading for the shower.

Comhraic entered the bathroom and stripped without a second thought, leaving his clothes behind like armor he no longer needed. He stepped under the water with a slow inhale. The heat soaked into his skin, muscle by muscle, relaxing every scarred inch of his frame. He moved with purpose, but without urgency, like a man letting the water worship him. As though the stream itself had earned the right to touch him.

Leo watched of course, what man wouldn't?

Sat on the bed, dressed now in the soft black shirt and drawstring pants Comhraic had laid out, but still wide-eyed, leaning forward slightly. His gaze didn’t waver, not for a moment. He devoured the sight in front of him. Comhraic tilted his head back, water cascading over his chest, down the thick slope of his arms, between his pecs, over his abs. Every droplet followed the hard planes of muscle like it knew exactly where it was meant to go. Leo drank it in. Slowly. Deeply. His eyes traced every line of that powerful body, the wide shoulders, the curve of each bicep, the inked skin stretched tight over a chest made to take damage and deliver worse. The scars scattered across Comhraic’s torso told stories Leo didn’t know yet, but desperately wanted to. Comhraic’s manhood hung full and heavy between his thighs, the warm water encouraging it to thicken, to rise with slow confidence. Leo’s throat tightened. He watched it sway gently with every motion, every rinse, every shift of weight, every time Comhraic leaned in to wash lower.

It was art. It was everything.

Leo’s lips parted. His body stirred under the fabric of his new clothing , straining slowly, aching with the kind of heat that wasn’t just hunger, that, that was need. He smiled. Slow. Wide. Hungry.

There was no shame, no filter. Leo was eye fucking the man, drinking him in with reverence and hunger all at once, and he made no attempt to hide it. He leaned forward a little more, elbows on his knees, transfixed. Watching Comhraic stretch up to rinse his hair, shoulders flexing, abs drawing in, the soft rise of his balls, the way his cock swayed beneath him like it owned the air around it. Watching him bend slightly to wash his thighs, the muscles of his back shifting with power beneath dripping skin. The entire scene was etched into Leo’s mind like scripture. He was memorizing every second, frame by frame. Every drop of water. Every motion. This wasn’t just a fantasy to be replayed. This was a relic to held up high, to be remembered. Worshiped, and yeah replayed like horny teen who just found his dad's stash.

Neither man rushed this exchange, why would they? They didn’t have to. Any amount of moments they wanted, they would have, and no power could take it away. That night would never leave their bodies. It was etched into the muscle, the bone, the literal core of their beings.

Comhraic changed, with some effort and even more protest, clothing now hiding the events of the night on both of them. Still no words, not even a syllable. He moved with a grace in contrast to the night, maybe even in deference. Comhraic stepped close. Leo didn’t move. The older man raised a hand, reached slowly, carefully, placed it flat against Leo’s deformed abdomen. Even through the shirt it was still warm from the violence. Comhraic closed his eyes. He breathed in. Not deep. Not loud. But whole.

Complete.

That final piece, the one he didn’t even know he’d been looking for, had finally been laid into the puzzle of his soul. Their being. Comhraic, slowly becoming Kevin again, let his hand linger, then slowly pulled it back. A moment? A few minutes? It didn't matter, it was what they needed. Leo’s gaze softened, with his lips parted slightly. Still, nothing was said, in fact there was only a nod. What else could possibly be said after all, this? And so Leo turned, walked out. The door closed behind him with a whisper. And the room, once full of war, lust, heat, was still again. But in that silence, there was no emptiness. 

Only peace.

Epilogue.

The days passed quietly.

Too quietly, really, but for once, Kevin didn’t mind. He went back to work, answering emails, reading reports, nodding through meaningless client calls. The usual. And yet, everything felt different. Lighter. Like the tension that had always lived under his skin, the need that twisted in his gut, was finally resting. Not gone. Never gone. But… tamed. Content. He didn’t chase the sensation. He let it breathe. That night with Leo didn’t haunt him. It centered him. 

Still, he sometimes wondered. How long could a man like him actually hold onto that kind of peace? That contentment?  He got his answer four days later.

He was at the office, alone in a tinted glass conference room, reviewing documents he didn’t care about. They where from another corporate fat cat in a long line of cats with no end. His phone buzzed once. He almost ignored it. But something, some instinct, made him look.

It was a a picture. It was two lines of Text. It was Leo. He was fucking Shirtless. He sitting back on a sofa, relaxed, confident, still bruised and pretending he had no idea what he was really doing. 

“Fucking fuck….” Kevin whispered to himself.

The lighting in the image was soft, natural, maybe late afternoon sun slipping through a window, casting golden shadows over Leo’s body. His torso was angled slightly, enough to show the depth of his chest, the curve of his waist, the tight press of his abs. The bruises had shifted colors. Faded at the edges, darkened in the middle, deep purples fading to yellows and green, proof of the force behind every blow. Some were wide and blooming. Others were shaped like the exact glove Comhraic had worn. His torso looked like a canvas after a storm, a roadmap of their war. But it wasn’t the bruises that made Kevin freeze, nope it was Leo’s smile. Soft. Pure. Shameless. Like a man proud of what his body had endured, and eager for the next round.

Kevin's eyes lingered over every detail.

The slight sheen of sweat still on Leo’s collarbone, like he’d taken the picture not long after a workout, or maybe he was just still warm from the memory. The way his chest rose just enough with breath to make the skin over his ribs pull taut. The small trail of hair leading down from his navel, drawing the eye straight to the waistband of loose gray shorts, low enough to show the defined V-cut lines on either side of his hips. Leo wasn’t just shirtless again, he was inviting…. Again.

One arm lazily behind his head, bicep flexed enough to show definition, the other hand low and out of frame, just suggestive enough to stir his imagination. The bruises made him look owned. The smile made it look like he liked being owned. Kevin's meat twitched, hardening faster under his slacks. His breath caught in his throat. He had to shift in his chair, forcing his thighs together, grateful for the desk hiding his reaction.

"Man enough to come finish what you started?"

Comhraic’s mind wandered into sinful territory as he read the first line of the text. Fell headfirst into it, more like.

He continued to strain against his slacks, it was becoming impossibly harder to ignore, to control. The damn fabric was doing absolutely nothing to disguise it. It pulsed with every heartbeat, his whole body burning like someone had set a fire low in his belly and left it there to consume him. His pulse roared in his ears. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to breathe.

Slow. Steady. Normal.

His knuckles whitened on the desk’s edge, and his hips rolled forward slightly before he caught himself. If someone walked in now, an assistant, a colleague, anyone, there’d be no talking his way out of it. The desk hid some of the problem, but it wouldn’t survive scrutiny.

“Just breath Kevin, just something… “

He could still see Leo’s smile burned onto the backs of his eyes. Still see his abs begging to be made love to by his fists. He growled low in his throat.

“Control Kevin.... control.”

He forced himself to blink. To look away from the screen. One breath. Then another. He flexed his hands, focused on the wood grain beneath his fingers. It took everything. Everything just to not unzip his slacks and lose himself right there. Everything not to explode. Everything not give a damn. He was just about to be under control when….

He saw the second line of text....

“Let me know when you’re ready for round two boy.”

No punctuation. No emoji. Just pure, calm, invitation. Like Leo already knew the answer. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course the bastard did.

Kevin's body reacted instantly.

His twitched, he cursed, he leaked. It was a warm, traitorous pulse dampening the inside of his dress slacks. He growled low in his throat, eyes squeezing shut. He clenched the armrests of his office chair until the leather groaned beneath his grip. Every muscle went tight, trying to cage the hunger roaring through him.

“Control Kevin, you can't have this now.”

He tried. He tired harder. Control. He summoned it like a dying man gasping for air, dragged it from the bones of discipline he’d built over a lifetime of holding back. Not just fists. Not just violence. But this. Comhraic desires flared like a exploding sun. Kevin's hips shifted forward involuntarily. Kevin fought, hard to force them back. Not to lose himself in what Leo had just done with two fucking sentences.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

Eventually, barely, with so much trouble, he opened his eyes. His breathing slowed, in paces but became normal. His blood stopped rushing to places it shouldn't be. He was wet, but could manage it easy enough. When he returned to his computer... Contracts and papers, spread sheets and emails were no more. That was forgotten now.

Now?

He was checking PTO balance. Checking flights. Checking hotel availability in Manhattan. His smirk returned slowly, hungry, dark, dangerous. Because the wasn't the end, oh no. New York was about to become a very regular stop.

 

 

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