Brotherhood of Bearded Alphas and Betas

Previously… in Silas Return’s Part 1: The Conversation Begins, Micah McIntyre arrives at Cannon Towers to return the badly injured Silas Thorne following the events of the Hunter Virus Files. What begins as a tense conversation about Silas quickly escalates into violence inside one of James Cannon's private conference rooms, as Tommy Davis contronts the man he held responsible for Silas' suffering.

New to the story?

• 📖 Read Silas Returns Part 1: The Conversation Begins: https://mars.chatfighters.com/story/94115

  Catch up on the events leading up to Silas' Return: 

• 📚 Cannon’s Cantatas: https://mars.chatfighters.com/book/1164

• 🧬 The Hunter Virus Files: https://mars.chatfighters.com/book/1287

Micah McIntyre
My head is still throbbing from the headbutt you just landed. As I slowly get to my feet, I suck in a deep breath, my chest sore from where the knee you planted on me dug in just moments ago.  Then you make me an offer. A private ring buried somewhere beneath Cannon Towers, away from cameras, away from anyone who might interrupt. My smile widens, sharp and interested. "Two floors down, no cameras?" I glance around the room once, deliberate. "In this building? That's a hell of a promise." My eyes come back to you. “But yeah. Deal. We’ll talk down there.” I step in close again, close enough to make it clear I’m not backing off. “And when I take you down, you can explain all you want. I’ll be listening.”

Tommy Davis

Your gaze drifts around the room at the mention of cameras.  My grin widens.  “I have been here long enough to know everyone and you would be surprised at what some of the security will talk about when some charm is applied.  Oh wait, charm, you probably know nothing about that, right?”

Not waiting for a response I gesture around.  “This is one of the private conference rooms where Cannon conducts sensitive business that requires no evidence.  Hence no cameras.   The ring I will show you is where other, more nasty bouts that again are not to be shown to anyone except those who can afford a ticket, and who the big man likes.”

“I tell you this so you know that we will not be disturbed and the man himself will only see you come in, take Silas to the medical bay and then leave.  There will be a gap between but he does not need to know.”

I leave the conference room and take a long winding route through a maze of corridors, making sure that I take a route that has no cameras or ones that do not face the way I take us.  Descending down two flights of stairs I take us into a large open dark space.  “Wait here”  I say as I stride into the dark, knowing this place well by now.  

I take a little longer than I need.  Let the fucker stew in the dark, wondering what I am up to!  Long moments stretch before I decide it has been enough time and then I flick the lights on over the ring, just those, leaving the rest of the space in shadow.

A full size ring is surrounded on all sides by bleacher style seats with a walkway at each of the four corners.  I head back over towards you.  “This do for our little chat?”

Micah McIntyre
I listen to your explanation about charm and blind spots and gaps in the timeline, my expression unreadable. “So you’re telling me this fortress has cracks,” I say lightly. “Good to know.” I don’t argue the rest. If you’ve managed to carve out privacy in Cannon’s kingdom, that tells me more about you than the building.

The route you take isn’t accidental. I clock every turn, every stairwell, every shadowed camera dome we avoid. When you leave me standing alone in the dark, I don’t move. I just listen. Old wood settling. Distant ventilation. My pulse steady, but my mind is running through angles. If this is a setup, it’s a bold one.

Then the lights snap on.

The ring is first class. Tight ropes. Clean posts. Professional build. But the canvas tells a different story. Faint discolorations. Scuffs that don’t come out. Stains of blood and dried semen. This isn’t a gym ring. It’s a place where things get settled. Quietly. I nod once, slow, taking it in.

When you walk back toward me, I size you up properly now. Not just the muscle and height, but the intent. You don’t want to talk. You want to make me pay. Fine. If there’s truth about Cannon buried in this building, it’s buried in you. I step closer, close enough that there’s no mistaking it’s a challenge. My pulse increasing, cock swelling. “Yeah,” I say, eyes flicking to the ring and back to you. “I like chatting in places like this. I can communicate really well here.” My fists curl at my sides, not raised, just ready. “So what’s the first topic, Tommy?”

Tommy Davis
I notice how ready you seem, with both of your fists clenched so tightly that your knuckles are turning white. I can't help but feel a surge of excitement in my loose jeans as I see that you're up for this. “You're pretty quick to cut to the chase, huh? Didn't business school teach you anything about the art of negotiation? You know, Cannon has taught me one thing for sure – always dress the part for the task at hand.” 

I deliberately mention Cannon's name to keep him at the forefront of your mind. Then, I give you a once-over with a bit of dramatic flair. “I wouldn't want your great outfit – which screams shabby chic, if I'm not mistaken – to get ruined before your trip home. So, follow me, and we'll get both of us into some proper attire for the discussion ahead.”

 I turn on my heel, trying my best not to laugh as I mimic the mannerisms of Cannon's tailor. As I take a couple of steps, I glance over my shoulder to see if you're following. When I see you're not, I raise both hands and clap them together twice next to my head. "Come on, don't just stand there. You do want answers, right?" The last line is delivered with just a hint of venom as I confidently stride towards the wall behind one of the bleachers. 

I slowly run my hand along a seam in the wooden finish until I find the ridge I was looking for. Pressing my hand onto it, the panel suddenly shifts into the wall and then slides to the side, revealing a keypad. Entering a code, I make a large section of the wall next to it retract, unveiling a spacious walk-in closet. Inside, there are rows and rows of various clothing – some on hangers, some in cases, each item visible and ready to be chosen.

"As you can see? We've got the perfect attire for a conversation in the ring. Feel free to pick whatever you like. Each item shown on the display has multiple sizes in the drawers or on the nearby hangers." I give you another once-over. "You're a small to medium, right?"

I step to the side and choose a pair of crimson compression shorts. I start to remove my gear, placing each item on a hanger, until I am standing naked. It is a display of size and power, allowing you to see the whole package, although not fully aroused yet but still very visible. After a moment, I put on the shorts, and that's when you can see the word “DAVIS” printed in white across the wide waistband.

“Certainly, those of us who regularly engage in combat here have our own equipment, but I'm certain you can find something suitable for your needs.” I casually assume a relaxed, leaning posture against the closet's edge as I lazily observe you.

Micah McIntyre
You drop Cannon’s name again like it’s currency. I just shake my head. “Dress for the job?” I repeat, slow, almost thoughtful. My eyes drift down over you, then back up. “Didn’t realize we were negotiating a merger. You looking to impress your boss?”

You turn and walk away from the ring, expecting me to follow. I don’t move when you clap. I just hold your gaze long enough to make it clear that when I follow, it’s by choice, not expectation.  You stop and punch in a code on a key pad, and a panel in the wall slides open. I take my time looking at what’s inside. Rows of fight gear. Clean. Expensive. Carefully curated. This isn’t a storage closet. It’s a statement. “Private ring. Private wardrobe.” I nod once. “You boys like your secrets.”

You grab a pair of trunks and strip without hesitation. I appreciate that. No coyness. No false modesty. My eyes lock on the way you move, the way your muscles shift under the light. You’re built like you hit hard and expect it to matter. Thick chest. Heavy shoulders. Solid legs. No wasted space anywhere…well, maybe something in your anatomy could be more generous. 

When the crimson shorts slide on and your name flashes bold across the waistband, I let out a quiet hum. “Custom print?” I ask lightly. “That’s confidence… or branding. Guess we’ll find out which.”

I step into the closet and drag my fingers across the fabrics. Traditional trunks. Compression cuts. A few pieces that look like they were designed for more than just fighting. I glance back at you.

“You said small to medium?” I smirk. “That’s adorable.” Then I reach for the hem of my hoodie. I pull it up slowly, stretching as it clears my shoulders so the muscles tighten and roll under the overhead lights. The fabric drops to the floor at my feet. Your eyes bore into me as I hook my thumbs into my sweatpants and push them down just as deliberately, stepping free without breaking eye contact once.  I know exactly what I’m showing you. No flexing. No posing. Just small shifts. A shoulder roll. A turn at the waist. Letting the light do the rest.My hand slides across my semi-hard cock. ‘I think I’ll grab an Extra Large.’ 

I pick out a pair of royal blue compression shorts and spin them around my finger as I walk past you, letting your eyes take me all in. Slowly, I step into them and smooth them into place with no hurry. The color works. I adjust the waistband once and turn slightly, giving you the full view before facing you again.

I step forward. Close enough that the heat between us isn’t accidental. Close enough that you feel I’m not intimidated in the slightest. “Funny hearing you talk about how things should be done when you were the one staring up at the lights a minute ago.” My chest presses into yours, not aggressive, just enough to make sure you feel it. “You want revenge for Silas,” I continue, softer now. “I get that. But don’t dress it up like it’s about honor. You want to see if you can do what he couldn’t.”

I tilt my head slightly, studying you. “So yeah,” I finished, voice calm and edged. “Let’s get in the ring. We’ll talk there.” A faint smile touches my mouth. “And if you’re as good as that waistband suggests, maybe I’ll even let you finish a sentence.”

Tommy Davis

My eyes roam across your body, for sure you have spent some time in the gym.  The rounded delts that you roll as you walk towards me, the peaked ceps that you flex at me, the traps that bulge in all the right ways.  Sure you are big, but not compared to me.

Your mounds of pectorals press into mine as you tell me what I want.  Not denying that as you suggest we get in the ring.    “Good idea, Micah”  I roll the word on my tongue, testing it almost.  Let’s do that, but first let me remind you that you also had a staring contest with the ceiling.  I hope that I was not too heavy with my knee leaning in on your chest.”  

I bounce my pecs as I shove you back a step with just a flexing of my body and the shifting of my weight, then my hand comes up and rests in the centre of your wide chest where I had been kneeling not so long before.  “This doesn’t hurt does it?”  I turn and head towards the ring and as I step up to the ring edge and leap up onto it, my head turns.  “Because that will be the smallest pain you feel today, I assure you of that.”

Sliding through the ropes I step across to the corner with red trim on the pads there and lean casually against it.  Slowly I adjust the thick bulge in my shorts as I think of what I want to do with you, both during the upcoming contest, and afterwards.  “Well, are you going to step into the office or what?”  

Micah McIntyre
​​You bounce me back with that chest flex and I let my heel slide before I settle again, eyes never leaving yours. I see it there. That look. You liked what you saw when I changed. Don’t pretend you didn’t. “Careful,” I say lightly. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to start thinking this isn’t just about Silas.”

As you mention the ceiling again I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I saw it. And then I got up.” My jaw tightens slightly. “You keep promising pain like it’s currency. I’ve already been through yours. If that was the preview, you might want to adjust expectations.” Then your hand presses into my chest again. I don’t swat it away. I let it sit there a second before stepping into it, forcing your palm to slide off on my terms. “You want to hurt me?” I murmur. “Do it in the ring. Not with speeches.”

My eyes stay on you as you pace to the ring and leap to the apron like you own the place. I don’t rush to follow. I walk to the ropes, grip the top strand, and step through upright. No ducking. No lowering myself. Moving straight to the opposite corner I turn, resting my forearms across the ropes for a second while I take you in across the canvas. “Office hours are in session, professor,” I call out evenly. “But I don’t think we’re ready for civilized conversation yet.”

I push off the ropes and step toward the center, circling slow, eyes sharp and steady. “And if this is about revenge,” I add, voice edged now, “make sure it’s yours. Not borrowed from a man who sends other people to do his work.” I stop just outside striking distance. “Let’s see what you’ve actually got, Davis.”

Tommy Davis

Preview? This fucker thinks I was trying before. Well you will see soon.  Look across the ring now that you have entered and boy did you take your time.  Bloody wrestlers and their need for drama and building tension.  Fine.  Two can play at that.

I lean back on the ropes as you spout more of your bs about revenge and me being Cannon’s tool.  Sure Cannon won’t mind me kicking this ginger fuckers arse all over the ring and back, but this is for myself.  You are the one who hurt, and probably destroyed all the work I have been doing with Silas.  Work I was doing to get close to Brakkus……And now I will have to rebuild what you destroyed.  Sorry, but that has consequences.

Your feet step light enough out of the corner and begin to circle out.  “Oh fine, you really want to talk like this, then I guess we should begin. Stepping out of my corner, the crimson of my compression shorts shining in the low light coming down out of the rafters.  Enough to see by but creating an almost intimate feel to the proceedings.  My smile adds to this as I bring up the charm factor just a nudge with a small grin on one side of my mouth.

As you get close enough to strike I have moved to match you, and while you are only just in reach, you are WELL within my own area of influence.  Stopping, I hold out my hand to shake your own.  “Let me call this meeting to order.  We are here today to discuss the issues between yourself and myself.   Oh wait……My name is Tommy Davis, and I am here to KICK YOUR ARSE!”

As the words increase in volume I reach across and grab your well developed trapezius and forearm and heave you forward to bring my left knee up into that 6 pack of yours.  The loud thud echoes around the empty space and I then adjust my grip under your arm and into the centre of your back as I turn away from you, pulling you towards me and tossing you over my hip.  

As you land my lips tug upwards “Is that the ceiling you are seeing again?”  Take a step back out of range and wait for you to get up.

“Meeting is in session”

Micah McIntyre
The knee buries into my abs and the air rips out of me in a rough curse before I can lock it down. You’re already moving, thick hand digging into my trap as you turn your hips and send me airborne. My back slams into the canvas hard enough to jar through my spine and for a split second I’m staring up at the lights again, ribs buzzing where you drove through me.

Not for long.

I roll to my side before you get the satisfaction of seeing me laid out. One knee under me, then both boots planted. I rise slow on purpose, drawing a steady breath back into my lungs as I straighten to full height. The sting is there. I don’t hide it. I just look at you while you smirk and try to sell that same ceiling line twice.

“That's all you got?” I ask evenly. “Because if that was your statement piece, I’m underwhelmed.”

I start circling again, not rushed, eyes tracking your stance instead of your shoulders. You’re powerful, no question. But you load before you move. Your weight shifts early. You like to feel the collision. That’s fine. I can work with that.

I give you the look like I’m going high for the collar and watch your frame tighten to meet it. Then I drop fast and tight, shoulder driving into your hip as my arm snakes behind your knee. I don’t try to muscle you. I turn through it, hard and clean, taking the base you left exposed and dragging it sideways. Your balance goes where I send it, and you hit the canvas hard, the ring shaking from the massive impact.

I stay standing, and drag the back of my hand across my mouth and look down at you. “You like bringing up the ceiling?” I say calmly. “Keep committing that hard and I’ll start deciding where you land.”

I step closer, not crowding, just enough to make you feel the difference. “Get up,” I tell you. “We’re just getting started.”

Tommy Davis

You stand slow, I can see you felt that but that was just the beginning of what I am going to do to you tonight.  You mouth off about it being “all I have” and that I telegraph my movements.  I just nod and let you get comfortable with ‘slow, lumbering ox’ Tommy.  

Suddenly you move and I go high as your feint worked and then suddenly the world spins on its axis as my leg gets hooked out from under me and I drop back onto the canvas hard.  The ring shakes as over 300lbs slams hard into it.

You begin talking almost right away as I roll over onto all fours and get up quickly.   Inhaling deeply as you keep talking and telling me to get up…..Errr what the fuck do you think I just did?  My feet circle you as my hands stay loose in a half guard position.

“Oh gee, was that your opener?  Well I decline your offer as it just was not good enough to dazzle me.  Maybe I can make a counter proposal that will be more to your liking.   I mean I doubt it as you just do not seem to be business inclined but then, so many are not”

I lurch forward but stop after a single step, making you dodge back.   “Jumpy?”   The circling continues for a long moment before I step to the right suddenly and make a move to lock up with you.  As your arms come up, I come low, almost mimicking your move but my arms wrap around your arse and thighs, my shoulder digging into your gut and I LIFT you over my shoulder.  

“What I propose is this, little one”   I turn slowly and get your back aimed at the centre of the ring and then slam your back down hard into it, the ring shaking once more but it was built to withstand guys my size and bigger being hurled around in it.  

As you land and bounce once, I stand and let your legs hit the canvas either side of me, but shift myself quickly and drop one of my knees into your upper thigh and then dig it into the thick muscle there for a long moment before I back away and smile.   “How is that for a counter proposal?

Micah McIntyre
You’re back on your feet fast. I give you that. No theatrics. Just heavy boots circling and those hands floating in that half guard like you’ve lived there. “You talk like you rehearse this,” I mutter, eyes tracking the way your weight shifts before you move.

You lurch forward and pull up short. I don’t bite. I shift a half step and keep my balance under me. The second time you move, though, you sell it clean. I come up expecting the collar and you drop low, thick arms wrapping around my thighs before I can widen my base. Your shoulder drives into my gut and then I’m airborne. The lift is violent and clean. My back slams into the canvas and the ring jumps under the impact, steel somewhere beneath it doing its job. The air blasts out of my lungs and before I can roll, your knee buries into my thigh and grinds there long enough to make sure I feel it.

I do.

The muscle tightens hot and deep, but I don’t give you the look you’re waiting for. You step back smiling like you just proved something. Maybe you did. I rise slower this time, not because I have to, but because I want you watching. I test the leg as I come up. It holds. Not perfect, but it’ll work.

“Good,” I say quietly. “Now we’re actually fighting.”

I step in before you can load again. No warning. My forehead snaps forward into your mouth, sharp and ugly, the jolt rattling through my skull. I stay tight to you where your reach doesn’t help, and drive a hard hook into your ribs. Then another. Compact, deliberate. I shift my angle and carve a short elbow up toward your jaw, close enough to feel the contact as bone drives through bone.

Before those thick arms can wrap me up again, I shove off your chest and step out just far enough to reset. The thigh burns. My lungs are working harder now. My eyes stay on yours.

Tommy Davis

The loud exhalation from your lungs as your broad back slams down is music to my ears and then as I press my knee down into your adductor muscle, I watch and see that small tensing of your lips, the way your eyes close almost imperceptibly and I know that you are hurting, but then who wouldn’t with over 300lbs pressing into the side of your thigh in one small location.   

Standing, I watch you rise, slowly but surely, your eyes on me like you are proving a point, and maybe you are.  I can see that slight quiver in your leg as you put weight on it.   Noted.  You can take pain for sure but this is just the beginning of what I have planned for you, so you prove nothing, just yet.  Let’s see how much more you can take.

You make a comment about us ‘actually fighting’ and I snort my derision, a snort that is cut short as you barrel forward and your head snaps into my mouth, blood spatters from lower lip as it splits under the impact and my body tenses from the pain.  And that saves my ribs from being cracked as your fists batter into them from either side, eliciting grunts as you succeed in driving air from me, and I know there will be bruises for sure.  

I do not have time to think much as your elbow then slices up and I try to move back but it is too late and the jarring pain as the point of your bone crashes into my jawline.  My teeth clack together as you push yourself against me to create space.  

My hand comes up to wipe blood away from my lips, but a small trickle continues to ebb out and form a slow moving rivulet down my chin to drip onto my pec shelf.   I feel my jaw and grin as I adjust it back and forth.  Not broken, but that is going to swell.  

I then clap my hands together slowly 3 times as I smirk at you.  “You have some power for sure and you know how to strike.   Not too bad.  Maybe this will be fun after all”.

Before I finish speaking I take a long step forward and bring my left leg around and snap the bridge of my foot into the inner edge of your thigh, right where I knelt before.  My fists, in a loose guard before  assume a boxing guard and I snap a low left hook at your ribs, but looping and slow.  

As you drop your guard to take it on the elbow I adjust the trajectory and bring it higher into your side of your jaw.   My right follows on the other side and the left resets to clip forward and jab into the bridge of your nose. I dance back on my toes, flowing like water (a large 300lb body of water) and move around you.

“You think this is fighting?  I am just warming up lil man.  I will show you how we do things on the streets here if you really want to see fighting.”  My smirk is wide but it does not reach my eyes at all, they are all business.

Micah McIntyre
The slow clap almost makes me laugh. Blood’s running from your lip and you’re applauding like you just watched a rehearsal. “Careful, you keep clapping like that and people might think you’re impressed.”

My snark costs me as you move in quick, snapping that foot cleanly back into my thigh. Same spot. Same muscle. It bites deep enough that my leg almost forgets to whom it belongs. It gives for half a breath before I drag it back under me and straighten. You saw that flicker. I can tell by the way you’re watching me now.

Then the hook comes. I brace low and you change it on me mid-swing, the shot climbing into my jaw hard enough to rattle my teeth. The right follows before I’m fully reset and the jab snaps my head back, splitting my focus for a second in white light and copper taste. I swallow it down. I don’t chase you when you step away. I plant my feet and let the sting settle where it needs to settle.

“Okay,” I say, wiping my nose and glancing at the red on my knuckles like I’m checking the weather. “You’ve got hands.”

The thigh throbs again, hot and insistent. You’re stalking it. Building something around it. I can see the patience in your eyes. That’s fine. You can keep hunting the same spot if you want. I’m not giving you another clean swing at it.

Closing the distance before you can load up again, I drop my level without ceremony and drive into you at the hip. Not to lift you. I’m not interested in playing strength games with a man built like you. I step around instead, deep and tight, cutting the angle so your weight has to shift. My arms lock behind your knees and I turn hard through the motion, dragging you sideways rather than trying to hoist you like a trophy.

You go down because your legs aren’t where you left them. The ring shudders when you land and I move with you, pressing up your side before you can replant. I trap your near arm tight against your ribs and thread my forearm across your throat, not just resting it there but driving it under your jaw and turning your face away from me. Your neck doesn’t like that. I make sure of it.

I drive my knee up higher, cutting into your waist and angling my weight so if you try to bridge, you’re lifting me sideways instead of up. My free hand posts wide on the mat for balance while the other arm tightens, not crushing your windpipe, but grinding up and deep until your head is forced to look where I want it to.

I lower my mouth close enough that you feel the heat of it. “You keep investing in that leg,” I say quietly. “Meanwhile I’m rearranging your posture.”

Tommy Davis

My fists connect, making your head snap back and forth.  Crimson blooms from your nose and trickles down to merge with the red of your beard forcing a large amount of pre to eject from the bulbous head concealed in my compression shorts and my grin shows bloody teeth.

Your snark about me ‘having hands’ makes me bark with laughter that resounds around the empty space as I begin moving once more. My feet sure as I stalk around you, my prey.  My nose is almost testing the air in a wolfen fashion, scenting the aggression, the testosterone that leaks from your pores and makes this even more intoxicating.

You move and I bring myself up, thinking that you wish to close and fight like a man, so your shoulder barge into my hips surprises me as you make my world spin.  As yours will when I am done with you.

My bulk drags me down like a great redwood whose base is chopped away, limbs flailing like branches.  The ring shudders underneath the impact as we land, my gasp being lost in the din as you scramble up my thick, mighty trunk to straddle my back with one knee in the centre as the other chops into my ribs and grinds in causing another burst of pained sound out of me.

The sharp ache as the point of your knee drives deeper, as if trying to dig through my thick layers of oblique muscle and mine my core makes me clench my jaw.  Then your arm snakes around my neck and begins to torque my neck.  The veins bulge as the corded muscles thicken to resist the twisting motion.  

My face begins to turn red as the blood flow increases to aid in the herculean task of stopping my head being turned so unnaturally and then your words creep into my ear, almost sensual as your breath tickles the small hairs at the nape of my neck. Your pecs press into the rounded globe of my deltoid as I struggle in your grasp.

“Thanks for the free Chiropractor session mate”  The words clipped out around gritted teeth. “Think I am good though,  maybe we can reschedule”

Slowly, forcing myself to act despite the pain from your knee with each movement, I pull my own knee up under me and plant my free hand on the canvas.  My bicep bulges, rounding out like a large hairless coconut, as I push myself up.  Straining against your weight, huffing in air as hard as I can and turning into the direction my head is facing.  The relief of your being free of your knee and my thick, bull neck not being twisted makes me sigh in relief as I start to edge forward, dragging us towards the ropes.

Micah McIntyre
You start working underneath me almost immediately, muscle stacking against muscle as you try to force space where there isn’t any. The sound that leaves you when my knee drives deeper into your side pulls a small, satisfied smile from me. You wanted me close and to test my strength?  Now you get just that.

“Reschedule your adjustment?  C’mon, mate.  We’ve already started the session, why cancel and rebook now?,” I murmur, as the scruff of my beard grazes across the back of your neck.

You keep building anyway, stubborn as hell, one knee planting beneath you and that massive arm posting to haul yourself upward. I move with you, sliding my forearm deeper across your throat before your shoulders can square. My bicep locks tight along one side of your neck while my other arm folds in behind your head, drawing everything close and compact, tightening the space until breathing takes work instead of happening automatically.

You’re strong enough to stand with a man hanging off you. So I make sure you’re carrying all of me.

As you crawl forward toward the ropes, my legs thread around your waist and lock behind you. Ankles cross. Quads tighten. I squeeze down hard, forcing your ribs to compress every time you try to drag in air. Your movement slows, effort bleeding into every inch you gain. “That’s it, big man.” I breathe near your ear, adjusting the choke so your chin can’t slip loose. “Keep fighting uphill.”

I keep glued to your back as you push forward, hips following yours, weight angled so there’s no clean way to shake me free. My cock thickening in my trunks as the heat coming off you warms me. My chest swells as I suck in a deep breath and tighten my forearm another fraction, elbows drawing in as your breathing grows heavier beneath me.

“You wanted payback,” I murmur, voice low and steady. “This is the part where you earn it.” I squeeze again, patient now, letting the pressure build while you fight for ground that keeps getting harder to reach.

Tommy Davis

My hand slaps the canvas and thick, calloused fingers grip it.  I listen as you take my snip and try to turn it back on me and I force a chuckle through the constriction around my neck.  My chin is tucked as much as I could manage before you slip your other arm around my neck and lock in a haphazard choke that is slowly constricting the life giving, and muscle fueling, oxygen.  My leg snakes out and I dig my heel into the canvas and pull myself that little bit closer to the ropes.  Edging closer with each moment, but each moment takes more and more effort.  My body tells me to stop and give in as my mind wills it to keep going.

Your thighs, though not as well defined as my own, are powerful in their own right, as my trapped core will attest to, or it would if it could talk, right now it would be screaming.  I edge another short pace closer and grin into your arm as I glance down at your thick legs.  Soon, I will get what I need from you.  Just keep going.  Push through.  I can hear my Dads voice in the back of my head keeping me going, telling me that losing to a punk like this is not the Davis way……….And he is right, especially one that will possibly give me more answers, or at least another lead.

Another drag closer and this time as I put my hand out it brushes against the rope before it hits the canvas.  Fucking finally, when did this ring get so goddamn big?  I huff in as much air as I can and surge to the side and heave you with me as I plant both hands now on the canvas.  I adjust myself under you, getting both knees under me as well.  

On all fours, the oxygen still at a premium I grip the lowest rope in one hand and the middle in my other hand and use them to hold me in position as I flex my massive quads, the muscles rippling and tensing, the tracks of my veins showing in high definition as I power myself up slowly.

“Coming along for the ride I see”  I gasp out as I step forward a little with each push upwards until I am standing against the ropes with a muscled backpack attached to me.  

Panting, now, but the training here focuses on pushing past limits, and once more I am glad for something that Cannon has taught me.   “So, you like putting me on my back, huh?  How about we go again, with a small twist?”   I release the ropes and grab your thighs, making sure to dig my powerful fingers into the spot I marked on the right side, ensuring that you do not pull away too soon.   

“TIMBERRRRRR!” I call out as I fall backwards with you covering my back like some ginger leech.  This time the 300lb+ redwood falling of its own accord.

Micah McIntyre
Your body doesn’t panic the way most men do when the choke settles in. You grind forward instead, stubborn and relentless, earning every inch through sheer refusal to stop moving. I tighten instinctively, forearm drawing deeper under your jaw as my legs clamp harder around your waist, trying to steal what air you’re fighting so hard to keep. Heat rolls off you in waves, muscle flexing beneath me as you drag us closer, and for the first time since taking your back I feel something sharp cut through the confidence.

“Jesus…” I mutter under my breath. Mildly impressed at your raw power.  I adjust again, trying to break your posture before you can build it. My weight shifts higher, ignoring the pain in my bruised quad as my squeeze tightens, hips following yours as you crawl and strain and start to haul yourself upright against the ropes. The effort it takes is unreal. Every muscle under me firing, lifting, refusing to quit while I hang on and work the choke tighter, refusing to give you clean space.

Then you stand.

For a split second I think I still have it under control. I stay locked in, riding your movement, convinced pressure will win before strength does. Then your hands find my legs.  The grip lands exactly where you worked the thigh earlier and realization hits half a breath too late. My hold tightens on instinct, refusing to release even as your weight shifts backward.

“Ahhhhhh….fuckkkingggggggg…shiiiitttttt!!!!”

You drop and there’s no stopping it once your weight commits. The impact drives straight through me, your full mass crushing my back into the reinforced canvas with a violence that empties my lungs in a sound I don’t manage to hide.  The ring barely gives. Pain spreads wide and immediate across my spine and ribs, bright enough that my arms loosen before I can will them not to.

For a few seconds air simply refuses to come back. Your body settles heavy over mine, heat and sweat pressed tight. Your thick lats spread across my chest as I fight to drag breath into lungs that don’t want to cooperate. Every breath you pull in moves your thick muscles against me, heat and sweat grinding close, while my own body answers in ways my pride usually won't allow, my nerves lit raw from impact and proximity alike.

I finally pull in a shallow breath that sticks, jaw tightening as sensation comes rushing back in uneven waves. Pain, pressure, heat… and something else tangled up in it that makes my stomach tighten despite myself. My hands curl instinctively against your sides, not pushing yet, just grounding myself against the solid reality of you pinning me there while my body figures out what still works.

“…hell of a drop,” I manage, voice rough, breath still catching as I lie there under you, feeling the weight, the grind of your glutes as they find my swelling bulge. My head spins, caught up in the strange edge where punishment and adrenaline blur together a little too well.

Tommy Davis

“FUCK”  Landing, even on a large flesh and bone cushion that was attached to your back, hurts.  The impact shakes the ring hard as our combined weight smashes into the centre of the ring, with you trapped under my bulk.  But more than all the pain is the sweet, sweet release as your arms and legs release their grip around my bull neck and my core.

My throat rasps as it pulls a lungful of wonderful oxygen into my lungs.  Once more I haul in another rasping breath and I flex my entire upper body to drag as much as I can into my respiratory system.  As my wide back flexes I feel you shift slightly underneath me and your voice croaks.  “Thanks for the landing pad.  I will make sure to recommend you to anyone who is prone to falls.  You play the part of crash mat real well.”  Tightening my rippled abdomen I pull myself up into a sitting position and feel an engorged organ between my glutes.  

“Did you enjoy your ride that much huh?”  Flexing the globes of my arse cheeks a few times to get you even more aroused before I shove myself up.

As my arse lifts off of you I shove forward onto my knees, between your legs and scramble around to face you.  I drop forward and can see your slight flinch as my weight heads your way once more until I slap both large hands down on either side of your head, my chest mere inches above your face, dripping sweat and radiating heat down into you.  Slowly I let my own pulsing member grind down into your own, feeling them slide alongside each other and letting you know just what you are working with now that I am fully aroused.  My voice, still raspy from the choke, purrs out.  “Oh you like that huh?  Well I can’t say that I am not enjoying this either, my friend.  The next part might not be so nice, or it might…..we will see”

I adjust my knees to drive them up into your thighs and force your legs wider apart as I drop my pec shelf down across your face, your breathing tickling my shaved flesh into gooseflesh.  With my arms no longer supporting me as I rest down onto you, I slide my hands, slowly, almost sexually across your delts.  Caressing the smooth skin, as I slide them down your bi’s and tri’s, fingers feeling each ridge and dip of your defined arms.   My hands keep going over your forearms, over your wrists and then I interlock my fingers with yours and start to pull them up over your head, dragging them over the canvas.

As my arms power your own up as if you were reaching towards the ropes I make sure to flex and relax my pectorals over your face.  “Hey Micah……Can I call you Mikey?  That is ok yea?  How you doing bud?  Feel ok?”   I grind my crotch down into yours once more.

Micah McIntyre
The flex of your glutes against my swollen cock pulls an involuntary hitch out of my chest before I can stop it. You feel it. The distraction buys you just enough space to shift, your weight lifting and rolling forward as you climb over me and settle into position above.

I let my head fall back against the canvas for a second, dragging air into lungs that still haven’t forgiven the landing, and finally take you in properly from underneath, sweat running down your shoulders, your split lip still oozing red as it mixes with the sheen covering your chest. Drops fall from you and gather against my own skin, pooling between my pecs as they rise and fall beneath your shadow. You look good like this. Dangerous and very alive.

Pain flashes hot enough to pull a sharp breath straight out of me as your knee drives back into the same bruised strip of muscle along my inner thigh. My hips twitch again before I can control it, hard cock pressing up into you inside my trunks, the reaction honest after everything you’ve already carved into that leg. Your body reacts as you feel me press deeper into you. Your weight settles heavier, confident, pressing down like you expect me to start fighting the pressure. But I don’t. Instead, I lean into you.

Your weight presses close and my body answers before my instincts can interfere, muscles tightening beneath you as our eyes lock. Flexing into the pressure instead of shrinking from it, my glutes tighten as my bulge presses up against the thickness of yours. Thick delts roll and my upper arms flex as your hands slide down, tracing, inspecting, taking inventory of every inch of muscle you intend to own.

I strain against you as your hands lock in mine and slowly pull them up overhead, allowing the musky scent of sweat, effort, and raw closeness to waft from my pits, and fill my lungs. I test the hold rather than fight it outright, measuring instead of wasting energy.  I’ve been under bigger men than you before. In rings. On mats. Other places where outcomes don’t get decided by scorecards. I always end up on top.

Those meaty pecs engulf my face, sweat mixing with mine. My lips part, tongue tasting salt mixed with copper as it slides up the deep valley of your chest. They flex up against me as my head turns—target acquired—and my tongue slides over to your dark, thick nip, circling it as it hardens beneath the attention. My teeth close around it, biting lightly at first, teasing. You shift. Good. I keep at it, tongue sliding again before my lips seal and suckle, pressure building slow and deliberate.

I ease back just long enough to catch your eyes, a devilish smirk pulling at my mouth.  “Mikey? Sure, what the fuck, I’ve been called worse, Tommy Boy. But tell me… you always get this handsy with the guys you converse with in here? Or am I just special?”

I give you a quick wink and dive back into your pec meat, teeth bared now as I dig into your thick, engorged nip. Heat builds between us. Your pressure shifts just enough as your attention pulls upward, focus slipping from punishment to contact, while underneath you my body keeps making small, patient adjustments that look like surrender but aren’t.

Tommy Davis

Your arms tense but almost as if seeing what I can do, rather than actually trying to get them free.  My fingers still interlace with your own as your lips and teeth find my nipple.   FUCK YES.  I shudder a little over you and my meaty pecs flex onto your head more, before I lift up slightly and look down at your grinning face.  

“Oh you are so special”, the last word becomes a moan as your teeth graze across my nipple and then I bark out in pain as the enamel covered weapons drive into the soft flesh between them.   “YOU…..”  Clamp down on the rest of my words as I feel you squirming slowly under me as the pain gives a clarity that the arousal had dulled.   

Slowly, carefully I lift my knee a little to relieve some pressure and feel a relaxing of your body for a moment before I grind it back down into the bruised muscle under me.  At the same time I release your hands, our fingers breaking their locked embrace and I grab your head and pull it to the side and away from my sensitive nubs.   I then snake my arm under your head and bring your red head under my armpit and lock in a reverse side headlock and begin cranking on some pressure.  

I reach out to grab the arm that flails around on the other side to at least stop you from having both of those sneaky fucking things free and my hips grind forward once more to press my thick manmeat into your own.  

“Mikey, should not have done that bud.   I mean I am still enjoying our ‘special’ time together but I am not sure you will now.   I mean I was all for taking this in another direction but it seems that you wished to choose the path of pain instead.”  My voice lowers and becomes darker with a hint of growling behind the words.  “And I am more than happy to oblige.”

Micah McIntyre
The moment your arm snakes under my head and cinches tight, I know exactly what you’re doing. The pressure clamps in fast, your bicep grinding against my jaw as you wrench my head sideways and start cranking the hold down. My neck protests immediately, the angle wrong and getting worse the harder you lean into it. Your weight presses heavy through my chest and ribs, pinning me flat while the knee you’ve been working digs close enough to that bruised strip of muscle to remind me you haven’t forgotten it.

I strain underneath you as your power and strength begin to take their toll. No denying you have the advantage in size and power, and right now you’ve got me exactly where you want me.

My lungs drag in another breath through clenched teeth while the hold tightens, the side of my face shoved hard against your body as you grind down and settle your weight. My nostrils fill with the scent of your sweat and musk as your pit presses down into my face, my cock hard and throbbing as my body reflexively arches up into your weight. Then just for a second I stay still beneath you, letting you think the control is complete, letting you believe the fight just tilted your way. Maybe it did. But I’m not finished yet.

You reach for my free hand, but I slip it clear of your grasp. Slowly I bring it up, fingers working toward your head before sliding across your face until my thumb finds the corner of your eye. I don’t hesitate. I drive it in hard. Your grip jolts the second it connects. That’s all I need.

I bridge and twist under you at the same time, hips turning instead of pushing straight up, forcing space between your weight and my shoulders. My head wrenches free from the crook of your arm as I roll you off me and turn onto my side, dragging air back into my lungs, my neck screaming from the torque you had on it.

“Should’ve kept the nipple,” I rasp, voice rough but steady.

I don’t back away. I stay close, chest rising and falling as I roll up to one knee, stretching out my neck and kneading the spasming muscle in my thigh. I watch you through narrowed eyes, measuring what comes next.

Tommy Davis

My attempt at your arm is foiled.  “Slippery little fucker” I think to myself as the intended limb slips from my grasp like an eel in water.  As I double down instead, on the hold that I have on your neck, I feel your fingers tracing over my face, working around, searching.   Snapping my head to the side your hand is torn away from its search.   Relentlessly however  it returns, swifter in its search, focusing in on a target.

“MOTHERFUCKER”  I scream and bat the hand away as I reach up to protect my eye and make sure there is no blood or damage.  Reflex kicks in and my grip around your bull neck loosens enough that your little hip throw and shifting underneath me, has me rolling off of you. I roll to the side and complete a full rotation to give some space as I continue to examine my hurt orb.

Blinking it slowly, tears coalescing and falling down my face, my hand comes away and I take a look.  A little blurry but a few more bats of my eyelid allows me to focus once more.  And as I focus I see you, kneeling not too far from me with a shit eating grin as you quip about my nipple. Forcing a grin across my face I nod.  “Yea might have been better for you” I say as I begin to stand up.

I turn my back on you and begin to head over to the corner.  Slowly I lean my thick, large muscled form into the reinforced post and drape my arms over the ropes.   

“Why don’t you get yourself up and we can resume this conversation like gentlemen, or at least I will.  It is up to you if you wish to carry on.”  I watch to see if you stand, my whole body tensed and ready for any kind of charge or assault.   Languidly I wave one of the arms draped over the top rope at you.   “Come along now”

Micah McIntyre
The moment your weight rolls off me I suck in a hard breath, my chest expanding as the pressure finally lifts from my ribs and neck. The canvas is cold under my palm as I steady myself on one hand, the other rubbing once across the side of my throat where your arm had it cranked. The muscle there still screams when I turn my head, and the bruised strip along my inner thigh throbs where your knee has kept digging all night. I flex the leg once just to test it. It holds. Not pretty, but it holds.

“Yeah… dirty trick,” I mutter, almost to myself, my voice rough after being cranked sideways and stuffed into your sweat-slick pit. “But you were enjoying yourself a little too much.”

You’re already moving toward the corner by the time I look up properly, blinking away the sweat that ran into my eyes during the scramble, coughing a bit as my lungs clear of the sweat and musk I was forced to inhale. For a second I just watch you. You slowly turn, thick shoulders rolling as you lean into the corner buckles and drape those long arms across the ropes like you’re taking a breather between rounds. The split in your lip has smeared a thin line of red down your chin and onto your chest. Sweat runs down the same path, tracing the lines of muscle before disappearing into the waistband of those crimson shorts.

Not exactly the picture of a man who just took a thumb to the eye.

I rise slowly, pushing off my knee and straightening until I’m standing again, working my neck side to side, trying to ease the tightness where you had it cranked. My hand slides down my ribs where you landed those hooks earlier, the dull ache under the muscle registering, before I reflexively adjust the growing bulge in my trunks, my cock throbbing against the damp lycra. I look you up and down once, with no subtlety at all about it.

“Other direction, huh?” I say, my voice steadier now as I grasp my thick shaft. “Funny. I thought we were getting there.”

My body hasn’t quite decided whether it’s running on adrenaline or something else yet, heat still lingering from the grind of the last exchange. I shake my arms out once and roll my shoulders again, loosening up as I start toward you at an easy pace instead of the charge you’re clearly ready for. You wanted me to rush. Not happening.

Each step closes the distance between us until the ropes and the corner frame your massive shape. I stop just outside your reach, my head tilted slightly as I look up at you leaning there like you’re hosting a meeting instead of a fight.

“You invite all your guests to conversations like this,” I ask lightly, “or am I getting the deluxe package tonight?” My weight shifts from one foot to the other, testing the leg again, my eyes still locked on yours. “Because if we’re being gentlemen about it,” I add with a small grin, “I should probably warn you…” I step just a little closer, my classic smirk breaking across my face. “I don’t walk away when the company is this good.”

Tommy Davis

My arms drape over the ropes, my thick glutes almost sitting on the middle turnbuckle allowing my legs to take the appearance of lounging.  Feet planted but lazily, nonchalant in their placement.  As you stand I start them tensing, shifting slightly, imperceptibly, to brace for a charge……that never happens.

Instead I watch you, eyes half lidded as if not a care in the world, as you roll your slightly impressive shoulders and shake out those arms.  Step by step carrying you closer to me.  A smile plays across those lips, one I am all to familiar with when I look in the mirror, one that I let slip into place on my own face as you ask what we are really doing here.

Languidly I push myself out of the corner and stand to my full height and look down at you for a moment before I take a long step forward.  My eyes take in the shift in your form as you expect some kind of assault.  I raise my arms out to the sides in a mocking gesture.   “Whoa lil Mikey.  I am not going to hurt you.  I mean, you want the deluxe experience, right?  Well, allow me to let you have it.”

My arms come in slowly, non threateningly to plant on your body oh so gently.  My left comes in low and caresses up and down your kind of impressive quad, rough fingers now taking a softer tact.  My right lands on your left deltoid in a slightly firmer grip that begins to knead and massage the muscle there with precise movements. I lower my head so that my face is within millimeters of yours, our breath mingling as it escapes the confines of our lips.

My eyes fix with yours and twinkle with a playful hint at the corners, before I move in closer, my cheek brushing yours so slowly, the contact barely felt and yet I know it must be igniting something if I am working the moment right.  My breath is now hot against your ear and neck as I let my tongue slip its bondage in my mouth and probe out along the lobe of your ear.

As it does so my left drags fiery lines across the front of your semi thick quad and then along your inner thigh.  The fingers slowly ascend the inner edge until they gingerly begin to cup the underside of your sac, hefting and almost weighing the contents.  My right has continued the massaging of your delt but then I shift it around and bring it down your back a little as I lean in closer once more.

“How is this for a deluxe package, Mikey?  Maybe I can make it a little better?”  My words are almost an exhalation of need and desire that I let linger in the air for a moment….

And in the moment after, my hands shift, my left getting between your legs and grabbing your arse as I shove into you and grip tight with both hands and heave you up across my chest, my face pulling back out of the way as your arm flails.   “Or maybe I should just make it more in line with where we are, huh?”   

With those words I drop down to one knee, the other foot planted so that my ever impressive thigh and knee are placed perfectly in line with your side as I drop you down across it, hard.

Micah McIntyre
My eyes stay locked on you as you move out of the corner. You close the distance slowly. This isn’t a fight anymore. You're easing into something else entirely, and my body responds before I give it permission. The heat between us hasn’t faded, it’s sharper now, sitting just under the surface. Your hands find me and instead of resistance, I give you tension. My muscles tightening under your touch. No way that I'm pulling away.  I won't yield to your advances. You need to know exactly what you’re dealing with.

You think you’re setting the pace. That makes two of us.

Your fingers move over me with intent, deliberate in a way that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with testing reactions. My leg tightens where you touch it, the bruise still alive under the skin, but I don’t flinch. I let the sensation sit there, mixing with everything else. The ache, the heat and the proximity, to the point where I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You step in closer, and I meet you there without hesitation. My chest rises into yours, breath steady and controlled, even as the space between us disappears. Your face is right there, close enough that I can feel every shift in your breathing, every small change in you as you push further into it. My arms wrap around you and pull you closer.  Our cocks grind together, throbbing, engaging in their own battle of wills, while my eyes don’t break contact with yours. Not once. In this game, I’m not the one blinking first.

My hand settles against your side, giving you a gentle squeeze, pressing into your thick firm glute, grounding myself in it while I let you think I’m following your lead. My body stays loose under yours, but not passive. Every movement measured. Every reaction chosen. You lean in further. So do I.

I’ve got you exactly where I want you. I’ve pulled you just far enough off balance. This has stopped being about strength and starts being about control. The kind I know how to take.

Then you move. And everything shifts.

Your hands tighten, your weight drops, and suddenly I’m not grounded anymore. The world tilts as you haul me up, my body lifting across your thick sweaty pecs before I can reset, before I can hook or turn or do anything except realize too late what you’re setting up.

“—fuck—”

The impact cuts that thought off completely.

My side crashes down across your knee and the shock of it rips straight through my ribs and into my core, a sharp, blinding line of pain that empties my lungs in an instant. My body folds over the point of it without any say in the matter, every muscle in my midsection locking tight as the force of it settles in.

My breath is gone. Chest spasming, trying to drag air back in and failing. My grip slips without meaning to as my body recoils off the impact, rolling off your knee and hitting the canvas hard, curling instinctively around the pain tearing through my side.

I can’t move right. Can’t breathe. Coughing in broken gasps that won’t quite come through as my body locks up, stunned and exposed under the lights.

Tommy Davis

Your weight hits my extended, and braced, knee and the impact rocks the ring as you exhale out loudly.  For a moment I think about holding on and lifting you for another go but you go limp in my grasp and even though the rage at what you, and whomever else, did to Silas seethes under the surface, it is joined with something else.   Something warmer, something I am not used to feeling when in this ring.  This place is reserved for pain and blood……not feelings….

As I release you and watch you roll off my knee and hit the canvas, the wheezing sounds that are coming from you are almost pitiable….What the fuck am I feeling here?

Rising to my feet and towering over you as you rock back and forth on the floor, hacking and coughing with the pain, I watch for a brief moment, letting this new feeling spread over me and, as I  begin realising what it is akin to, I shake my head and step forward.  Standing over you I clear my throat loudly…

“AHEM.  So, Mikey, it is time that I get honest with you.  I mean I have been honest already but time for some deeper truths.”   As I say this I push you forward onto your stomach and then move around you and position myself between your legs. “So you may have seen a match I had some time ago when I first fought under Cannon’s banner, a fight with a brute called Brakkus.”

As I am talking, my voice low and calm, the anger (and whatever else this new feeling is) restrained within for now, I reach down and bend your legs at the knees, one at a time and hook your foot around the front of my shin, locking them in place.  Your breathing is still laboured and I need to work quickly to get this in place before you can struggle.  

I then step up onto the backs of your thighs and hear the hitch in your breath once more as I stand on your already injured thigh. I lean down and slap at your sides hard once to a pained gasp but not getting the reaction I needed. Then I strike again and as your arms flail back to stop me, my hands shoot forward to grab them tightly at the wrists and begin to rock back.  Twice I rock before I fall back onto my ass and pull you with me, your legs trapped around my own and your arms in my grip as I pull you up into a Surfboard.  “Cowabunga Mikey. Surfs Up!”

As you struggle I begin to speak once again as if I have all the time in the world.

“So Brakkus, after I humiliated him, sent someone after me and I got hurt…….”  My own voice catches at the memory of the long period spent trapped in a hospital bed after what they did to me.  “Badly. After this the two men, Brakkus and his big bitch Stone, disappeared.   As if by some divine intervention, or if I am right Cannon’s meddling, Silas came to the gym when I was healed and back in training.   He and I tested each other……much like you and I now actually”  I allow a little chuckle to escape my lips as I purposefully ignore the pained sounds coming from you.

I keep my grip tight on your wrists as you struggle and even bounce you a couple of times to increase the pressure on your back and shoulders.

“It was after this that Silas and I started to become more than friends.  We bonded over the mutual pain we had caused and had done to us by none other than Brakkus.”  Once more I bounce you to make sure you are listening to my story with the rapt attention I think it deserves.  

“As well as that, there is something else that I need Silas for.  Not only is he becoming important to me in those ways, he is important to me as a way of getting back at the arsehole Brakkus.   I will not say why, or how, that is for him to tell you if he so chooses.  BUT I NEED HIM. AND YOU HAVE BROKEN HIM!”

My pressure on your shoulders, arms and back increases as I pull back on your arms and lift my legs forward and out just a little. “I am sure what he was made to do was bad and maybe you and others got hurt.   That is for you to take out on Cannon for sending him.  You hurt someone I care for, and any hope of him helping me in jeopardy.  All because you had a temper tantrum at him rather than the source of your issues, the source of so many issues if you go back far enough.”

“Are you still listening up there?”  I call up almost musically.

Micah McIntyre
The stretch hits before I can brace for it. My back cranks back under your control, thick, sweaty pecs forced open as you pull me into the hold and take away any chance of resistance that I might have had left. The damage from your knee is still fresh, sitting deep in my ribs, and now you’re drawing it out, lengthening it, turning it into something that doesn’t just hurt but burns intensely. My shoulders strain where you’ve dragged my arms back, joints tightening under the pressure while my core tries to lock down and protect what it can. Every breath comes shorter than it should, catching halfway in before I can fill my lungs, the position working against me as much as your strength. You’ve set your base perfectly, steady behind me, no movement wasted in the way you hold me there.

I don’t fight it. That would be pointless. Instead I settle into it just enough to measure it, to feel where the pressure is coming from and where it’s going. You distribute your weight so I can’t shift cleanly out of it. My muscles tense and release in small adjustments, searching for something to give me leverage without handing you more control. The pain sharpens when I try to draw in a deeper breath, my ribs protesting the stretch, but I keep going anyway, forcing the air in slow until my body starts to work with me instead of against me. There’s heat in it too, not separate from the pain but wrapped up in it, the closeness, the contact, the fact that you’re not just holding me but shaping where I can and can’t move. It would be easy to get lost in that if I let it. I don’t. Despite the surge I feel in my trunks, I keep my brain where it needs to be.

Your voice cuts through it while I’m still adjusting, low and closer than it should be, carrying something heavier than the taunts you started with. I listen without looking for a moment, eyes fixed ahead while I let the words land where they will, because there’s no faking that kind of tone. You’re not performing now. You’re telling it straight. I can hear what’s underneath it, the frustration, the anger that’s been sitting there waiting for a place to go, and the way you’re working me while you talk tells me exactly how personal that direction is.

Then you say the name.

Brakkus...

The sound of it settles somewhere deeper than the pain, pulling up something I haven’t had to look at in a long time. My jaw tightens without meaning to, the reaction small but real, and I keep my breathing as even as I can so you don’t see anything shift. I don’t know if it’s the same man yet. It could be a common enough name, something I can write off until I hear more, but the way you say it, the way you describe what was done to you, lines up too clean with the kind of lessons I was taught. The kind I refused to learn. I don’t interrupt you. I just take it in and let it linger while my body stays locked and strains in your hold.

My eyes narrow slightly, not in reaction to you, but in thought, the pieces turning over while I stay exactly where you’ve put me. My body stretched and held in a way that doesn’t let me forget it for even a second. The strain keeps building the longer you hold it, digging into my ribs, pulling across my chest and shoulders until every breath feels earned and incomplete. This kind of pain doesn't spike and fade. It settles in and stays. It twists through me, sharp and constant, and somewhere in it my body responds in ways I don’t fully control.  Heat rises alongside the ache, tension coils low even as the rest of me is forced open under your grip. Your voice, your story, the name you dropped; it all folds into that same space, and the more I listen, the harder it is to separate what I’m feeling from what I’m remembering. If it is him, then I know exactly what you survived, and that knowledge doesn’t soften anything between us. It sharpens it. There’s something in that, something that pulls at me even as you hold me here. It's neither sympathy nor respect, but a recognition that runs deeper than either. 

Tommy Davis

Your quiet tells me more than any sounds you make ever could.  Sure you make little grunts and groans as the initial pain becomes a long and slow aching that, I know from past experience, settles into places and then seeps out further and further until it feels like you are awash in a river of pain that keeps pulsing and twisting through you.

As I drop the name of the man that started this whole chain of events there are no words from you then either, but I watch the muscles in your back twitch for a moment.  To anyone else it could have been you struggling, but I have had you trapped now for a moment and while you have been testing my hold, this was too sharp, too sudden to be anything other than a reaction to what I said.   

My question as to whether or not you are still with me goes unanswered and so I grip your wrists that little bit tighter and pull back on them to increase the pressure on your shoulders joints and at the same time I widen my legs just enough that the pull on your back will increase and hopefully start another point of pain as I open your legs wider.

Still no words!  Just the little sounds that you cannot help, the ones that happen involuntarily whenever anyone is forced to endure long, slow torment.  I know them well, from my own mouth, but more often from the lips of the men I keep trapped.  Some of them are even willing to endure this because……well I am sure you can guess why!

“So, I get the idea that you know of whom I speak?  Someone you know personally?  Because if that is the case then what I will do to you has only just begun.  Or maybe you, or someone you know, has been hurt by the cretin?  Maybe he hurt someone, you know.  Like you hurt Silas!”  I give a long slow pull on your arms to deepen the pain through your shoulders to punctuate what I am saying.

“So, do you want to talk about it?”  My voice growls out of my throat as while my prey is trapped, my mind is revisiting all of the pain and anguish caused by Brakkus and his minion, as well as flashes of Silas up in the medical bed that intermingle with pictures I was shown of myself in much the same condition and venue.

Micah McIntyre
Your pull increases as your fingers dig tighter into my wrists, ankles pressing deeper against my calves. My back bows harder under your control, shoulders straining as you drag my arms tighter, the joints protesting in a deep, grinding way.  The pain building as the fibers of my muscles stretch beyond their capacity. My chest opens, sweat-covered pecs straining, ribs already tender from the drop now stretched again, each breath forcing a sharp stitch of pain through my lungs. The sound that leaves me is low and hoarse as sweat runs down my sides, across my lats, and drips onto you beneath me. My muscles tighten and shift in small, tremulous adjustments that never quite get me free but never go slack either. It hurts in a way that lingers, in a way that stays present in every inch of me. Somewhere in that constant pull my body reacts in ways I don’t bother denying. I can’t hide my rock-hard cock, tenting my trunks as some dark part of me responds to the sensations starting to overwhelm me.

You keep talking and I keep listening, even while my focus splits between the strain you’re putting on me and the name you dropped into it. Brakkus sits there heavier than the hold, heavier than the pain, pulling up memory whether I want it to or not. I can see it as clear as anything. The way he taught, the way he pushed, the way every lesson came with an edge that cut a little deeper than it needed to. I remember what it felt like to be under that kind of expectation, to be shaped into something that wins no matter what it costs. The expectations he set. The corners cut. What he wanted me to do just to get ahead. The moment I decided I wasn’t going to be that man for him… well, that didn’t end clean. Nothing with him ever does. You don’t walk away from someone like that without paying for it, one way or another. The way you describe what was done to you by him fits too well with what I already know.

The pressure shifts again, forcing another gasp of pain from me, my shoulders dragged back farther as you pull, my body tightening reflexively against the stretch even though it only feeds the hold. I force the air back in slow, working through the pain instead of fighting it outright, trying to control it just enough that I can think through it. Your words dig at something else entirely, something I don’t give voice to, the comparison you’re making whether you realize it or not. I didn’t follow him. I didn’t become what Brakkus wanted. But I didn’t walk away clean either, and what I did to Silas sits there in the same space now. It’s not easy, not simple, and not something I can brush off just because I had reason. The line between what I refused and what I’ve done since isn’t as clear as I’ve always told myself it was.

My head tilts slightly despite the hold, just enough that I can draw in a fuller breath before the strain pulls it short again, my eyes narrowing as everything settles into place around that name. It slips out of me before I decide whether I want it to or not, quiet and rough and edged with something I don’t bother to hide.  My body stays tight in your grip, still working, still feeling, still very much in this, but my focus has shifted, locked now on something deeper than just this fight with you.

Tommy Davis

I know the pressure has to be getting worse with each passing moment and yet you hold on, and my respect grows a little with each pull on your arms, with each movement of my legs.  You grunt and moan, shifting to try and ease the pain but you never beg, or even utter a word.  The silence, except for the grunts escaping you, stretched on for long moments……

“JOHANN…..”

The name is softly spoken, almost inaudible, but I catch it and the rage flares anew.  My grip tightens on your wrists as I pull back harder as my legs pull yours forward, really applying pressure to your back.  My own voice a rasping growl.

“I never said his first name, Mikey.   So something tells me you know the fucking animal himself.   The source of SO much fucking pain and suffering.  Are you working with him?  Did he make you do the things that you did to Silas?”

As the idea leaves my mind and bursts out of my mouth the anger intensifies, burning ice cold in my chest as I yank back harder on your shoulders until I can almost feel them close to popping out of their sockets.  And yet something still holds me back.  The pain that was in the single word you uttered, the rawness of those two syllables has me stopping on the edge of causing you the pain caused to Silas, and to me by his father, and the need to know why his name causes you the pain that I feel.

A slow moment, me holding you on the verge of your arms popping, becomes longer still, the pained sounds coming from you the only noise in the arena.  That is until a low chuckle bursts from my lips.  A chuckle that becomes a laughter tinged with something darker.  The eyes that you cannot see feral in their glow underneath you.

I adjust my hold on you and as my legs lower yours down until they touch the canvas, my hands loosen their grip and as you come lower, they slip up your arms, over your elbows and those almost impressive biceps.  I let you lay atop me for a moment, almost cradling your form into my larger mass.

Rolling us onto our sides, still holding you almost gently, I let you lay on your side as I get up to my knees behind you.  The laughter breaks free once more as my hands roam your body until I grip between your thighs, my thumb stroking your balls in your trunks and under your neck.   Using my grip at each place I flex my much larger biceps and heave you up and adjust my position once more so that one foot is on the ground, with my knee extended out.

I place your back down on the knee, gently, rubbing your thigh and neck once before my hands shift and I press you down over the knee.  “You know HIM, so you must know this move right?   TELL ME HOW YOU KNOW HIM!”  The last words are loud and the laughter behind them hints at pain not healed, pain that will erupt in breaking force.  Pain that has left a small part of my psyche scarred and unpredictable……

Micah McIntyre
There’s a change in you the second the name escapes from my mouth.

Your grip tightens, harder than before, your strength digging in with intent now, no restraint behind it. My shoulders get dragged back another inch and the strain spikes deep into the joints, sharp enough that it forces a harsher sound out of me before I can stop it. My back bows further under you, the stretch turning punishing as muscle and tendon are forced past where they want to go. There’s no give in you at all. You’re holding me there on strength and anger alone, and every second in it grinds deeper into my shoulders and spine.

Your voice cuts through it, rough and edged, and I don’t need to see your face to know what’s there now. I can hear it in the way you say his name, in the way it turns on me just as fast.  In a moment, you’ve already decided what I am. My jaw tightens as you throw it at me, the accusation landing clean. Working with him. Following him. Becoming him. The thought hits hard enough to cut through the pain for a second, dragging something old and buried right back to the surface. I left that behind. I made sure of it. Hearing it thrown back at me like this twists something in my gut that has nothing to do with the hold I’m trying to survive.

The drop across your knee drives straight through my back and everything seizes.

Pain detonates across my spine and ribs at once, sharp enough to blank everything else out for a second as my body folds over your leg. My breath is gone again, ripped out clean this time. My chest locking as I try to pull air back in and can’t. My hands grab at you on instinct, trying to steady myself while the shock settles in and spreads. My back spasms against the pressure, muscles spasming hard around the point of it, every shift of your leg sending another surge through me. I know this hold. HIS hold. I know exactly where it comes from and what it’s meant to do.

My head turns just enough to drag in a shallow breath, my voice rough when it finally comes through. “I’m not with him.” It’s strained but steady, forced out through the pressure you’re keeping on me without breaking. I pull in another breath, slower this time, pushing through the pain so I can keep talking. “Never was. That’s why I walked.”

I hold there over your knee, every muscle tight, every nerve on fire. But I don’t go slack. Your laughter cuts through it, low and wrong, and that’s what finally shifts something colder through me. You’re not just angry now. You’re close to losing it. I can feel it in the way your hands move, in the way your body holds me there like you’re deciding how far to take this. The pain is one thing. I can work through that. But the way you’re looking at this, the way you’re holding me here while you decide what I am to you, that’s something else entirely. My breath comes in short gasps as I brace against the pressure, knowing I need you to hear me before you stop listening altogether

Tommy Davis

Your hands grab at me and at first I shift to stop you from trying to claw or do something to stop me from making you scream.  Instead you hold onto me, like I am some kind of life line.  Wrong guy.

I laugh out once more as your words break out.  I can almost hear the pleas behind them.  Did Silas plead?  Did he beg you to stop hurting him?  Another low cackle bursts out and I crank on the pressure incrementally to drag another groan of pain out of you.

I look down at you and your face flashes from your own to Brakkus leering up at me with his shit eating grin and back again.  “You say you left him but here you are, at my doorstep, after hurting my friend.  Co-incidence?  I think not.   What does he want?  WHERE IS HE?”  

I scream down into your face…..No Brakkus’ face…….No yours again.  I shake my head and fight the dark desire to snap you across my back right here and now and show Brakkus that his little underling cannot touch me.

“Your boss is a fucking coward.  Sending you to hurt my friend, someone with a connection to him and then having you bring him here to me.  What does he think that it will rattle me?  He thinks it will make me lose my edge?”  Another manic laugh bursts out before I realise it is even bubbling under the surface. 

I apply the pressure just a little bit more as I flash back to the night Stone and Brakkus messed me up in Comptons and left me for dead in the alley behind the pub.

“He and his hulking bitch could not finish the job and so he sends you to try and break my will and then try to break me?  Is that his plan?  WELL IS IT?”  As I scream the last down into your face, my voice cracking and hot spittle spraying with each word, I feel my left eye twitching as once more the laughter escapes me and I struggle to fight the darkness rising higher and higher.

Micah McIntyre
There’s no break in the pressure. If anything, it intensifies. Your knee drives harder into my back as you lean into the hold with everything you’ve got behind it. My spine bends farther over you, the strain biting into my ribs and spreading across my chest, every breath cut short before my lungs can fill. Without thinking, my hands tighten on you, holding on while my body fights to keep from giving way. My muscles shift under the load, tightening, releasing, searching for something that takes the edge off, but there’s no clean angle left to work from. You’ve got me stretched out, my torso exposed, gear tenting, and every adjustment you make drags more out of me whether I want it to or not.

You’re not hearing me. I can tell that much from the way you’re looking at me, from the way your voice changes when you say his name. This isn’t about me anymore. It’s about him… Brakkus… about what he did to you, about everything that never got settled. I’m just where you’re putting it now. You’re not seeing who’s in front of you. You’re seeing something else, and whatever that is… it’s driving you near insane.

I drag in a breath that catches in my throat. Slowly, I force it again, working against the pressure so I can get words out that I need you to hear. “He… didn’t… send… me…” It’s rough but steady, pushed through the strain instead of breaking under it. Not a plea. Not an excuse. Just the truth, put out there while you’re still deciding what I am to you.

You crank the hold again and it hits deep, my back locking against it as the pain spikes and settles in harder than before. My breath breaks, comes back uneven, my head dropping back, sweat dripping from my brow, tracking through my hair and pooling onto the canvas. I force myself up again, eyes finding yours through the way you’re looking at me. There’s something off there now, something that doesn’t stop at anger. You’re right on the edge of losing control of it, and I can feel that sick panic in you as much as the pressure you’re putting on me.

“I know exactly what he is…” I get out, quieter now, but clear enough to carry. “How his sadistic, fucked-up mind works…” My body stays tight over your knee, every muscle working to hold together under the strain while I keep my focus locked on you. “And I’m not here to finish his work.”

As my words trail off you push harder again, my back arching over your knee as the strain spikes straight through my ribs, hips, and quads at the same time. My breath breaks completely this time, my chest locking as I try to drag air in. I can’t get enough. My hands grab at you without thinking, fingers digging into your body just to anchor myself while I try to ride it out. My vision tightens at the edges, not blacking out, just narrowing under the pressure and the lack of air. Every instinct tells me to endure.

For the first time since stepping into this ring...

...I'm not sure I can.

End Part Two

To Be Continued...

Published: 2 days ago, viewed 85 times.