hephaestion2014's blog

The next meeting was meticulously planned by Jon.It would be absolute and beyond interruption.

​The chosen location was an empty, secluded garage on the outskirts of the city—a vast, brutalist concrete cavern. 

The air was heavy, still, and bitingly cold, thick with the smell of stale, petroleum-stained dust, damp earth, and ancient motor oil. 

The only light filtered in through the thin, grimy panes of a high, solitary window near the ceiling, casting long, distorted columns of weak illumination across the uneven, cracked concrete floor. 

The silence was immense, broken only by the distant drip of condensation somewhere in the shadows. 

There was no audience, no witnessess.

​The door, heavy and thick with rust, was locked with a heavy clunk.

​They stripped to their trunks, fastened thick leather dog collars around their necks, and connected them with a heavy, cold metal chain. 

This was not merely a fight anymore; this was a ritual of absolute binding.

​The final battle began with a brutal, violent visceral yank. 

Bryan charged, pulling hard. 

Bryan seized Jon in a bear hug, their sweat-slick bodies molding into each other. 

Jon fought, desperate, wrapping the chain over Bryan’s shoulder and yanking down. Bryan’s head snapped back, catching a sharp link of the chain against his ear.

 A thin, dark line of blood immediately welled up on Bryan’s temple.

Bryan trapped Jon’s leg and forced him onto the cold, unforgiving concrete. The chain wrapped around their torsos, a suffocating, metallic tangle. 

Bryan secured a brutal face grind. The chain sliding across his face. In this tangle as they rolled, Jon secured a deep rear naked choke. 

The chain, already tight around their necks, intensified the pain as the links cut into their skin.

 To hurt the other, they would have to hurt themselves.

Bryan’s vision blurred. In his desperation, he found a loop of the chain that had tightened around Jon’s thigh. With a sickening, final wrench, he pulled the chain tight, the metal cutting agonizingly into Jon’s skin. 

Thug Jon screamed, a guttural cry of searing pain mixed with a rush of intense, desperate, all-consuming release, forcing him to let go of the choke.

​They collapsed back onto the concrete, utterly spent, their bodies shaking with the aftermath. 

The chain had become completely wrapped around their torsos and arms, binding them tightly together. 

They lay flat on their backs, inches apart, their breathing ragged, desperate, and loud. Drenched in sweat and blood.

Slowly, Thug Jon raised one arm, his fingers finding and settling gently, possessively, on Bryan's heaving chest. 

Bryan, in turn, found the strength to mirror the gesture, his hand settling equally exhausted and possessive on Thug Jon's gut.

They lay motionless, two powerful rivals utterly defeated not by the other's strength, but by the consuming, intimate, brutal nature of their war, locked together by the chain and the finality of their exhausted, shared release.

​Two weeks passed, weeks of tense silence. Bryan Brawler felt the residual frustration and the demanding nature of his intense bond with Jon. He knew this call was inevitable.

"Jonno," Bryan greeted him. "The chain didn't break us. It just showed us what kind of leash we can put on other guys when we're completely focused."

"It showed me you bleed easier than I thought, Brawler," Jon retorted, but the edge in his voice was tempered by respect. "But you take the pain without snapping. I'll give you that."

"I need that bleeding edge, Jon. And you need the weight," Bryan stated plainly. "I got an offer. A cockfight. Birmingham. Two weeks. Rules are zero. No holds barred, no time limits. The crowd's paying double just to watch the violence."

Jon chuckled. "A cockfight? You finally dug up two fools dumb enough to try and take us both on at once?"

"Two heavy hitters," Bryan confirmed. "I know how you move, and you know how I break a man. Together, there isn't a team on the circuit that can survive our combined pressure. Think of the fun we can have when we've got the chain off and our hands free to do the real damage."

"I say," Thug Jon replied, a dangerous grin in his voice, "we make those fools pay for every bruise you gave me. Send me the details, Brawler. Let's show them what real, professional violence looks like."

The partnership was sealed.

 The war between them paused, replaced by an even more dangerous alliance. 

The brutal, intimate intensity that had brought them together was now a weapon they would wield as one. 

Bound.

Three weeks later, the intense score remained unsettled, a knot of unresolved desire and aggression lingered in both men. 

The venue was the low-ceilinged, sweat-and-ale-scented backroom of a Manchester pub. 

It was a utilitarian space: chipped concrete walls, a single bare bulb caged behind wire mesh, and a worn, taped-up wrestling mat laid directly on the dirty floor. 

The air was thick, heavy with anticipation and the stale smell of spilled beer and old cleaning fluid. Many fluids had been spilled in this room over the years. 

Bryan had many fights here. It was home turf. His kingdom.

​The audience was highly selective: six of Bryan’s mates stood, pressed against the walls to maximize the fighting space. These were bulky men, labourers, scaffolders and security guards, their faces unreadable, grim with a shared sense of ownership over the contest.

​The fluorescent bar light from the corridor seeped in under the door, casting long, distorting shadows on the grimy mats and the two men who stood ready to collide.

​Bryan and Jon clashed together in a furious, primal knot of flesh and limbs. 

Bryan trapped Jon underneath him, securing a deep chin-lock, pressing his forearm into Jon's jaw until the bone ached, a sharp spike of pain that Jon met with a desperate counter. Jon fought the hold by finding the only exposed flesh—Bryan’s tense shoulder muscle—and bit down hard. 

The sharp, blinding pain made Bryan gasp, a choked roar, and the tension in his arm immediately snapped. He felt the wet warmth of blood bloom on his skin, a stark counterpoint to the rush of adrenaline.

​Jon executed a powerful belly-to-back suplex, slamming the heavier man onto the mat with a resounding thud. Jon moved fast in his desperate follow up, dropping his full weight into a seated pin position, driving a fist down savagely onto Bryan's lower abdomen.

​Bryan fought back furiously, grunting with effort, until he powered out, throwing Jon off him with a desperate, animalistic grunt.

​Bryan lunged, hooking his hands into Jon's black trunks and pulling with all his weight. Jon cried out, a sharp, surprised gasp as the fabric stretched tight, burning across his skin. 

They strained, then gave, ripping with a violent tear. Bryan roared in triumph as he tossed the last of Jon’s clothing aside. Jon was fully naked, his body intensely exposed, his arousal visible—a stark, challenging flag. 

But Jon "bulled up" charging Bryan, seizing the waistband of the Brawler’s red trunks, and with one final, savage effort, ripped the garment from Bryan’s legs.

​Both men collapsed, gasping for air, lying totally naked and exposed on the dirty mats, their shared vulnerability intensifying the electric heat of the contest. 

Both were clearly enjoying the brutal physical combat, their bodies slick with a mix of sweat, effort, and something far more primal.

​They rose, naked and glistening under the dim light, their breathing ragged, chests heaving. Both fully aroused.

​Bryan quickly forced Jon onto his back. 

Bryan then drove his own muscular backside down into another brutal face-smother pin. The crushing weight and suffocating pressure made Jon feel completely helpless, his head buried deep between Bryan's powerful thighs, the dark, musky heat overwhelming his senses. He bucked, desperate for air, the humiliation a direct, visceral thrill that coursed through him, making his own body tighten with an involuntary response. 

Bryan held him there, grinding his face into his crotch, savoring the shuddering struggle beneath him.

​With a final, explosive last bit of his Jon threw Bryan off, forcing the heavier man onto his back. Jon, breathing hard, straddled Bryan's chest, his nakedness making the dominance feel absolute. 

He secured the final, most visually brutal pin: he locked his powerful thighs around Bryan’s head in a crushing naked head-scissors. Jon pushed his hips up and back, holding Bryan's head trapped, his crotch pressed hard against Bryan's face. 

Bryan's head throbbed under the pressure, the feel of  the hot skin against his face overwhelming his senses, forcing his body into painful, humiliating submission. 

He grew harder. 

Jon, with his free, hard hand, grabbed Bryan's cock like a trophy, a final, possessive statement of victory.

As Jon started to tease the naked Brawler, his hips starting to buck with the strokes, savoring his victory, two of Bryan's burly mates—their faces grim with loyalty and humiliation—moved swiftly. Before Jon could react, they were on him, grabbing him hard.

"That's enough, mate," the one gripping his arm, Mick, growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The King lost fair, but you're not going to stand there and use him like a toy. Get up."

Jon struggled immediately, surprised and furious. "Get your hands off me! The match is mine! He admitted defeat!"

The second man, Darren, hauled Jon off the mat with a powerful surge. "Doesn't matter now. This is over. You finished your business, now finish your night. Get dressed outside."

They dragged him across the mats and through the doorway, ignoring his curses and protests, unceremoniously throwing him out into the quieter passage of the pub. 

The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, cutting Jon's final roar of defiance in half.

Bryan, still sprawled, naked and defeated on the mat, watched the ejection. 

He felt no relief; he felt a white-hot surge of anger. "What the hell was that, Mick?" he snapped, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I didn't need your help! I wanted to finish it!"

Mick glared back, his loyalty overriding Bryan's immediate fury. "You were done, Brawler. He had you. We just saved you the last bit of the show. We'll handle him next time."

"There is no 'next time' like that!" Bryan roared, his voice thick with frustrated violence. The premature, messy end robbed him of the satisfaction of the full rivalry's conclusion—the required verbal admission, the final, absolute surrender he had been seeking, even in defeat. He glared at the closed door, the image of Jon's dominant grin and possessive hand still searing his mind. 

The humiliation of the loss was now poisoned by the rage of the interruption, leaving him naked, hard, and utterly unresolved. He didn't just want a rematch; he needed a final, private, brutal act to excise the burning need Jon had stoked, a need that was now sharper and more demanding than ever before.

Been having a problem with writing Orhalder at the moment so to try and break that block bern playing with writing prompts. Ai and editing.  Come up with.

 The Brawler vs The Thug.  

The Eagle was thick with the scent of sweat, testosterone, and cheap alcohol. 

Bryan Brawler was nursing a pint. His thick neck and the permanent tension in his shoulders drew occasional glances, silent acknowledgment of his underground reputation. 

Across the room stood Thug Jon. Leaning casually against the wall, sipping a bottle, his taller, leaner physique exuded a coiled, dangerous grace. 

Their eyes met over the heads of the crowd, an instant, primal recognition that they operated in the same dark, no-rules shadows. Jon smirked first and pushed off the wall. 

"Brawler Boy," Jon's voice cut low and clean through the noise. "Didn't expect to see the great Manchester King slumming it with the civvies. Thought you had better spots than this low-rent piss hole." 

Bryan didn't bother turning fully. "Surprised to see you outside the twink division, Jonno. Popworld is back a ways. Stick to guys you can actually choke out without risking a fractured rib."

 Jon leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, challenging whisper. "Fractured ribs heal. But I hear you're built for taking a beating, Brawler. That thick body of yours must soak up a lot of punishment, doesn't it?" 

Bryan’s jaw tightened. "I take what's given, and I return it twice as hard, Jonno. You're fast, but you're soft." 

Bryan’s eyes swept over Jon’s lean frame with calculated contempt. "You're a pretty face waiting for a humiliating pin."

 Jon grinned, his eyes hardening to steel. 

"Soft, you say? Let's settle this then. Find out exactly how hard I am when I've got your face buried in the mat." 

They moved closer, foreheads almost grinding together, their private war igniting. "

We can't do this here," Jon growled. "We need mats, privacy, and no rules but the ones we make." 

Bryan gave a curt, hungry nod. "I know a place. Right now. Luxury hotel, fresh sheets, thick walls and no questions asked. We settle this properly. No audience, no rules, no ref. Just me and you. And the loser admits defeat." 

"Done," .

They didn't shake hands. Bryan simply finished his drink, and they both walked out, leaving the lively, fun-filled noise of The Eagle behind for the promise of a private battle.

The plushness of the luxury hotel suite felt immediately incongruous to their raw energy. 

Bryan Brawler moved first, drawing the heavy velvet curtains across the vast window, plunging the room into a muted darkness. 

Jon locked the door with a sharp click. 

They tossed the ornamental pillows aside, then efficiently dragged the heavy, king-sized mattress off the frame and onto the thick carpet. 

This wasn't a room for rest; it was now an improvised arena. 

Jon peeled his t-shirt off in one smooth motion, his shoulder muscles catching the low light. He unzipped his jeans, letting them pool around his ankles, before kicking them away. He stood tall, his black wrestling trunks a stark contrast against his pale skin, exuding a casual, dangerous readiness. 

Bryan was less graceful, more primal. His powerful hands ripped his shirt open, exposing the deep musculature of his thick chest and shoulders—a fighter built for impact, not finesse. He unbuckled his belt and shed his clothing, his body looking intimidatingly powerful in his short red trunks. 

They both stood on the perimeter of the makeshift mat, their eyes locked. 

The silence was thick, charged with the sudden musk of two men sweating out of anticipation, watching, waiting, stripped down to nothing but their essential weapons: their bodies, their trunks, and their absolute need for dominance. 

Bryan, roaring, initiated the assault, relying on his stocky strength. He drove Thug Jon backward, falling onto the mattress, then ruthlessly planted his solid, muscular backside onto Jon's face—a punishing butt-burial. 

Jon gasped, the air thick, musk-laden, and hot, the taut muscle pressed firmly over his mouth and nose. He struggled with fierce, choked urgency, the humiliation a direct, visceral thrill. 

Driven by fury, he spun, shoving Bryan off the mattress. 

A chaos of limbs crashing.

 Jon immediately seized the advantage, straddling Bryan's chest. He pulled Bryan's head straight into his trunks for a suffocating face-smother. Bryan’s face was roughly forced into Thug Jon's growing bulge. The musk would have been intoxicating, but Bryan was angry. He fought with a desperate energy. 

The closeness of Jon’s heated skin was both stifling and undeniably arousing. 

Bryan exploded upwards, bucking Jon off. He quickly maneuvered, locking his thick thighs around Jon’s torso in a vicious scissors hold. Jon's ribs screamed under the intense pressure; the grip crushing his breath. 

Drawing on sheer willpower, Jon reached down, found Bryan’s waist, and executed a desperate reach-around submission, grabbing his trunks and the bulge in it. 

In surprise Bryan loosened the hold, gasping. 

It was a challenge and also an invitation. 

They separated. Acknowledged their mutual arousal and enjoyment of finding pleasure in pain. 

Both giving and taking it. 

The final moments were a brutal exchange. J

on landed several stinging belly-slaps, the sharp thwack against his sensitive abdomen designed to make Bryan flinch. 

Bryan roared in anger, countering with a savage, deliberate ball-squeezing tactic. His hands clamped onto Jon’s package through the thin fabric. 

The pain was immediate and blinding, a searing ache instantly mixed with a rush of intense, dominant control, bringing Jon to his knees with a guttural moan. 

Jon came back to himself.He charged in anger and mounted Bryan, and delivered the ultimate humiliation, sitting down hard on Bryan’s chest—a final, crushing pin. Jon slowly eased his weight, their bodies slick, heating the air around them. 

He finally released Bryan and stood over him. 

"Not bad, Brawler," Jon said with satisfied dominance. 

Bryan pushed himself onto his elbows. 

"I'll take your trunks next time." Jon smirked, then walked toward the bathroom, stripping off his trunks and letting them drop to the floor. 

The hiss of the hotel shower filled the silent room.

Broke it up a bit this time.  Still long. Feel free to skip. 

***

Ber er hver að baki nema sér bróður eigi.

The Saga of Grettir, chapter 82

***

6

Sitting on the bed in just my towel,I ran a hand through my hair. Still damp. 

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I want to think "not bad" but I notice little things about my body. 

 I wish I had visible abs, but besides being a fuck boys uniform, I know that with  fighting they really give no advantage. Body weight not strength. 

 Vanity. All is Vanity. 

Within half an hour, I'm dressed and walking towards the stones, I was surprised how even in the light of the Half Moon, how bright it was. 

 Certainly Victor couldn't have jumped me from the shadows in this light norw.. 

Nor could the both of us have hiid behind the stones and watch like we had years ago.

I looked up at the stars. I wasn't sure what I had wanted coming back here. But I knew I wanted to experience this place agajn  in the dark bur also watch the sun rise. 

 Good material is how I had rationalised this late night pilgrimage 

John Aubrey had mentioned Orhalder in some of his notes for his Monumenta Britannica.  William Harrison Ainsworth had wrote about attending a boxing match here. That was before all the Queensberry rules. 

 He'd been one of The Fancy to watch the match. 

He'd refereed to it as an evening of pugilistic entertainment- and whilst well attended, it hadn't been strictly legal. 

The contest had started a little before dusk but the entertainment had long continued into the dark.

I let my imagination work a little. 

I tried to conjure how it would have been. 

 The Fancy gathered outside the stone circle ring, looking in. A cross section of society, high and kpw with the same desire to watch two men fight.

 For money. For entertainment.

Being just a note in his writings, there were no records of who fought here or what they looked like. Nor the outcome. Did they fight fair or was there the gouging and kicking thar accompanied such fights at the time?

A fox barking. No. A deer. The sound brought me back to this place and now. I could see it's silhouette run across the fields towards the sea. 

It had been another bare knuckle fight that had brought me back to this place. But no notes in some old writing but a video on YouTube. Not 1800s but more recently.

7

There was a lot of hubbub. Voices drowning each other. Felt more like noise than communication. People talking at, threatening each other.  

The Cameraman. I say Cameraman. More filming mobile phone. His movements are as jerky and disorientating as the voices. But as he swept around taking in the space, I saw the stones. 

 Bod's Knife.

My breath caught in my chest in recognition. And my attention became more focused.

"Fucking end of the world,, " I heard a voice off camera say, " and it's cold as shit. Let's just do this." 

Two men standi facing each other. 

One in his mid twenties, the other early thirties, I'd reckon. The youngest is wearing black shorts and the older is in black trackies. Both shirtless.

Their chest and arms are both muscled but not too much. Its bodies that have been earnt doing physical work and a little gym. They've not been sitting in an office all day chowing down creatine and protein powder and swiping lanyards to get into gyms to replace the lack of honest work. 

There is no muffin top creeping over the waistbands, but there are no six-pack rippling against either. These are bodies used to fighting. 

And they are staring at each other. 

There's a lot of physical distance between them and they each have their own retinue dancing around them squawking like parrots. Chickens. 

But the two Roosters in their shared eye contact shrink the world to just them, psychologically nose to nose in that intense staredown.

There's a lot of noise again from the surrounding camps. So I mute the video. I can fill in my own blanks.

These two guys hate each other. This isn't about competition, or entertainment. This fight is going to be about violence. About doing damage to each other.

"Don't try to fucking take her!" 

Victor's voice came floating through the air. A memory disturbing a memory.. 

For a split second I'm confused as to where I am. No, when I am.

Orhalder is empty. Victor isn't here. Just me alone. And memories. I move further inside the circle to Bod's Knife.  

I touch it open palmed. I notice even in the moonlight, a sole black feather by its base.

***

They're meant to shake hands, bunp fists or something. 

 They don't. They just look at each other and move back a little to create space between them. 

They start to circle each other. 

The rest fall away except one guy in a Man United Football Shirt who seems to be the Referee 

There first few punches are thrown at each other. None connecting. All force and no finesse but keeps the space empty between them. 

Each man moves into that gap, throws a punch, doesn't connect and moves back. It's a frustrating dance for the men as well as the guys watching. 

Suddenly some blows land and they are close together in a clinch. 

Close contact denying the space to throw more powerful punches. 

A few body shots on the older on the younger. 

Younger puts his hand on the older faces. His hands cover the others face pressing hard against his nose and rhe fingers slipping down to the eye socket

Man United Top breaks in and physically pushes them apart. 

He's muted but I can tell from his mouth he's shouting at the younger guy. 

***

A Crow caws angrily breaking my reveries. It's objecting to some new presence. I look at the woods separating me from the village. Hiding humanity behind its branches and leaves, which with no detectable breeze appear to be moving. 

I knew when I caught m this movement out of the corner of my eye coming from the woods that it's going to be Eric emerging onto the path and heading towards me and the ring of stones.