hephaestion2014's blog

The Radcliffe Camera wasn't a sanctuary for Dane; he was drowning in the scratch of pens and the rhythmic turning of paper, he ignored his notes on Barthes' Mythologies to watch the lad two desks down—a rower, judging by the way his shoulders stretched the cotton of his hoodie.

I could choke you right here, Dane thought. He imagined the clatter of chairs and that neck nestled in his forearm. He’d feel the pulse against his skin, release the hold, and grind against him on the floor.

"Everything okay?" the lad asked, sensing the gaze.

"You’ve got a sturdy build. Must be great for rowing," Dane forced a smile, masking the wolf. The lad blinked, a slow flush creeping up his throat. Dane chuckled, packed his bag with frantic energy, and left.

That night, Toby was being romantic. A classicist—sweet, blonde, and moving with a grace that felt like a slow sinking into marshmallow. The room smelled of Jo Malone and cloying florals that coated the back of Dane’s throat. Toby’s touch was always light, always apologetic.

They had sex, but for Dane, it was a pro-wrestling match: scripted, empty moves with the volume at zero. Toby was too careful; he didn't want to hurt Dane, only to offer a tender, protective embrace. As Dane moved with him, his mind drifted back to the Quarry, remembering the load he'd splashed over the face of the guy he'd beaten.

“Dane! Ow... ease up.”

"Sorry, got carried away."

Don't damage the civilians, the Soldier whispered.Toby finished. He looked up with adoring eyes—too bright and hopeful, like sunlight on a broken column. 

‘That was beautiful, darling,’ he whispered, his thumb tracing Dane's jaw.”

"Yeah," Dane echoed. "Beautiful."

        By Wednesday, the week had soured. Dane walked down Cowley Road, his skin feeling too tight for his body. He didn't see shopfronts; he saw a sea of moving parts leaning together. The crowds were filled with voices that had as much weight as whispers in dry grass—people in expensive gear that had never seen a drop of sweat. They were plastic mannequins with vacant stares.

He was starving for something solid.

He stopped near a bus stop, his gaze snagging a lad in a grey tracksuit. A low hood couldn't hide a face rewritten by fists: a nose with a permanent list and a jagged line of scar tissue breaking the right eyebrow. He was braced, weight back on his heels, hands deep in pockets.

You’d fight back, the Soldier whispered. You wouldn't cry "ow."

He walked close, his shoulder brushing hard against the lad's arm.

"Watch it, posh cunt."

"Make me." Fucking make me.

He waited for the bait to be taken, wanting the rough nylon against his skin. The lad really looked at him—seeing the tucked chin and eyes vacant of fear. He saw a man looking for a fight, not avoiding one.

"Fucking weirdo," the lad muttered, stepping back as his bus arrived.

Dane laughed—a barking sound that made tourists stare. His pocket buzzed.

> [WTA] – WINNER TAKES ALL | COVENTRY | SATURDAY | 21:00 | ACCEPT or REJECT> 

Dane tapped [ACCEPT].

     Saturday took forever. Dane sat on the train, his kit bag holding purple speedos, wraps, and high-strength ibuprofen. They pulled into Coventry under an uninspired grey sky—a scarred veteran of a city, all concrete and sharp angles. A needle-like rain began to fall, soaking into the pavement and turning the city a darker shade of charcoal.

At least this place looks like it can take a punch, he thought.

He followed the signs toward the city centre, his pocket buzzing against his thigh.

> Meet at the Belgrade Theatre. Main entrance. 14:00.> 

      The Belgrade Theatre was a grand concrete block darkened by rain. Dane stood with his back to the glass, weight distributed over his arches, his eyes performing a rapid audit of the Saturday crowd.

He didn’t expect the man who eventually stopped in front of him: a solid, weathered presence—a man built to occupy space and never yield it.

"You must be the scholar," the man said. His voice was a low Manchester buzz. "Friend of Simon's. Name's Bryan. I’m on after you, right enough. They like pairing the outsiders—keeps the locals from getting too comfortable."

"You're fighting too?"

"Aye. Different bracket, same blood. I’m at the same Travelodge, I reckon. Saves on the logistics. Fancy keeping me company?"

Bryan walked with his shoulders broadened as if absorbing the weather. 

They took the subway under a ring road—a curved concrete throat that smelled of damp earth and stale urine. Death's Twilight Kingdom.

"Look at this. You think this is just a path. It’s a funnel. If lads come at you here, your 'geometry' won't mean shit because there’s nowhere for you to go. Oxford teaches you how to wrestle in a ballroom, lad. Coventry teaches you how to kill someone in a cupboard."

     In the Travelodge, Bryan leaned against the desk while Dane prepped. "You’re looking for 'geometry,' Dane. X marking the spot. Stop trying to solve the man and start trying to feel him. You don't out-think the pain; you become part of it."

"It’s how I won last time."

"You won because you sucked him off. That’ll get you through a First to Cum match. But a Winner Takes All... that's different. Fighting isn't a thought experiment, Dane. It’s a conversation. A rough one, but a conversation nonetheless."

"He's got the weight advantage," Dane said, thinking of Kian.

"Then let him have it. Don't fight like a scholar proving a theory. Fight like a man who’s tired of being hollow."

      After Bryan left, Dane prepped in silence. He was halfway through wrapping his knuckles in "bruised purple" cotton when the bedside table vibrated. The ringtone was a sound of sunlight and lattes.

[TOBY]

Dane watched the screen dance against the nightstand. He answered.

"Hey," Dane said. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.

"There you are! I was starting to think the Bodleian had finally swallowed you whole." Toby’s voice was light, brimming with the easy comfort of someone who had never seen a fist raised. "Listen, I’ve got the flat smelling of those vanilla candles you hate but secretly love. I’m thinking M&S pasta, a bottle of that crisp white, and absolutely no talk of semiotics. How does that sound?"

Dane tightened the wrap around his knuckles; the purple cotton creaked under the strain. "I’m not in Oxford, Toby. I’m in Coventry."

"Coventry? Whatever for? Is there a hidden archive I don't know about?" Toby giggled, oblivious to the hollow silence on the other end. "Well, don't let the concrete get to you. It’s miserable here, too—just started drizzling. I’m currently buried under the duvet with your old hoodie. It still smells like you."

Dane closed his eyes. He could almost smell the Earl Grey and laundry detergent—a sensory hallucination trying to mask the scent of damp earth and stale urine clinging to his own skin.

"I love you, you big weirdo," Toby whispered. "Hurry back for brunch? I’ve already booked that spot in Jericho for eleven."

"Yeah," Dane whispered, his thumb hovering over the red icon. "Brunch."

He cut the line before the silence could break. He tucked the tails of the cotton in with a sharp, violent tug. He didn't feel like a lover; he felt like a weapon being loaded.

      The walk to the Canal Basin was a descent into the city's gut. Dane and Bryan moved in a shared, professional silence. Dane felt he was walking beside a man who treated this like a shift at a factory.

The Basin was a dark horseshoe of water. In the shadows of a vaulted underpass, a corrugated iron unit stood with its doors partially raised. Amber light spilled onto the cobbles, accompanied by the low hum of a crowd.

They stepped inside. Thirty onlookers spread thin against the damp brick walls.

"Thirty," Bryan whispered. "Nowhere to hide in a crowd this small. Every mistake you make, they’ll hear it before they see it."

Kian O'Connell stepped forward, bare feet slapping on blue vinyl. He was broad and pale. For a second, a cocky grin didn't reach his eyes. His gaze caught on the sharp line of Dane’s jaw, then trailed down the length of his wool coat to his black jeans. A sudden, heat-flushed tension radiated off him—the defensive arousal of a man caught off guard by a predator he found beautiful.

"You the other student, then?" Kian asked with the rolling vowels of the West Midlands. "Right state, you are. Reckon all that reading’s gonna help when I’m sat on your chest, bab? You look a bit... delicate. Why not show us what’s under the wool, unless you’re frit?"

Dane saw the flush on Kian’s neck and the way his pupils bloomed despite the amber light. "Reading provides the theory. But I am not here for a lecture. Let us move to the practical application."

Dane moved first, shedding his outer layers with a clinical, focused heat. He shucked off the wool coat and pulled the cashmere sweater over his head, the fine fabric dragging against his skin before he tossed it aside. He stood bare-chested—seventy-five kilos of ropy, hardened muscle.

The zipper of his jeans rasped, a sharp, industrial sound in the quiet unit. He pushed the denim down and stepped out of it in one fluid motion, revealing high-cut purple speedos that matched his hand wraps. He stood on the blue vinyl, his long legs pale under the amber lights, his arousal a hard, geometric shape pulsing in expectation.

"Fair play," Kian rasped, his eyes dragging over the sharp line of Dane's hips. "Proper shame to ruin a face like that, wouldn't it? Might have to make you beg a bit before I’m done."

His hands trembled as he yanked his hoodie over his head and stepped out of his joggers. He stood in crimson speedos—eighty-eight kilos of marble-hewn power, pectorals heavy and twitching. He didn't try to hide his own rigid response; he bounced on his heels, making the weight of it move.

The bouncer-referee nodded once.

Kian didn’t wait. He moved with the explosive energy of a rugby player’s shot. Dane didn’t flinch; he became lead, anchoring his legs into the vinyl. But Kian’s body was refined power. As they collided, Kian drove his head into Dane’s chest and wrapped his arms tight around Dane’s thighs, lifting him clean off the mat in a high-crotch hoist.

The world tilted. Dane hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a sharp rasp. Before he could recalibrate, Kian was a blur of motion. His skin was hot and slick as he transitioned with fluid grace, his heavy pectorals grinding against Dane’s chest. Erect nipple brushed erect nipple.

Dane found a grip on Kian’s wrist—the purple wraps providing coarse friction against the red wristband—and twisted the joint savagely.

"Ow... fuck’s sake!" Kian gasped.

For a split second, the amber light flickered, and Dane was back in the soft glow of his Oxford flat. He heard Toby’s voice: “Dane! Ow... ease up.”

They're both just clay that’s afraid to break.

"Just be here," Dane said, his voice a flat, terrifying calm. "In the pain."

"Shut your mouth!" Kian snarled, embarrassment turning to rage. He surged forward from his knees, using his superior bulk to pin Dane’s shoulders. He dug his chin into Dane’s collarbone and worked his arms under Dane’s armpits, locking his fingers behind the neck in a grounded full nelson.

Dane’s head was forced forward, his neck straining. He felt the weight difference now—Kian’s red-clad erection pressed against his hip. He didn't waste energy pushing against Kian's chest; he reached back over his own head, purple-wrapped fingers snaring Kian’s hand. He twisted the wrist outward in a sharp, clinical torque.

To save his arm, Kian was forced to release the lock and roll. Dane bridged his hips, bucking Kian’s weight off-balance, and twisted his shoulders to slip out. They scrambled, catching their breath in a crouch before standing to face each other again.

Kian lashed out with an open-handed slap that caught Dane across the cheek—a gunshot sound. Dane’s head snapped back, his skin blooming sudden crimson.

Yes.

Dane returned the favor, his purple-wrapped palm cracking against Kian’s jaw. They traded heavy slaps to the face and ringing chops to the chest. The sound of hand on skin was rhythmic.

Kian saw an opening. He snatched Dane’s right arm and spun his hips, dropping heavily to the mat and pulling Dane’s centre of gravity down with him. He threw his leg over Dane’s face, snapping an armbar shut from the bottom.

Dane’s arm was trapped against Kian’s red-clad groin, Kian’s hard quads clamping down like a vice. Dane felt the white-hot spike of pain and the rhythmic thud of Kian’s pulse. He didn't pull away; he entered the pain, hitching his body forward and stacking his weight directly onto Kian’s chest. He drove his shoulder into Kian's throat to kill the leverage.

As the pressure on his elbow eased, Dane didn't back off. He used the momentum of the stack to grind his forearm into Kian’s windpipe. Kian bucked wildly, his face turning a mottled purple as he fought for air. In the frantic scramble that followed, Kian tried to roll to his knees, but he was too slow.

Dane became a shadow. As Kian turned, Dane transitioned instantly, sliding behind him and wrapping his long legs around Kian’s waist in a body-triangle. Ankles locked with a bone-deep click. He was glued to Kian’s back.

He pressed his face into Kian's neck, feeling the leaping pulse of the carotid artery—the X. He opened his mouth and pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against the vein. Kian froze, a low, confused whimper escaping his throat. The intimacy was more shattering than the choke.

Dane slid his forearm under Kian’s chin and completed the rear-naked choke. As the oxygen left Kian, his eyes rolled back with a low, broken moan. His hand tapped weakly against Dane's forearm.

Dane adjusted his grip, maintaining the choke just enough to keep Kian in the twilight of semi-consciousness. He unwound the body-triangle. Kian was gasping, chest heaving. Dane reached down, purple-wrapped fingers hooking into the waistband of Kian’s crimson speedos. He worked them down Kian’s trembling thighs with agonizing deliberation. He teased the fabric past Kian’s knees until the red spandex was a shackle around his ankles.

Kian groaned, a sound of total surrender, as Dane moved between his legs. Dane hauled Kian’s heavy legs upward, draping one over his own shoulder. He moved forward, his skin stark against Kian’s golden hair. As he entered him, he didn't look away.

"Please," Kian whispered, though he didn't say what for.

They were face to face, breaths mingling.

Dane slid home with a slow, filling force. Kian’s back arched, fingers digging into Dane’s biceps, mouth open in a silent shock of pleasure. Dane cupped Kian’s jaw and pulled him into a primal kiss.

As Dane began to thrust, the amber light caught the sweat on Kian's neck, turning it into liquid gold. The smell of damp concrete and iron was nearly choked out by a ghost-scent: vanilla candles and the floral wash of Toby’s flat.

Dane pushed harder, driving his weight into Kian as if trying to bury that memory deep inside him. With every thrust, the image of the Jericho brunch flickered and dimmed. He watched Kian’s eyes roll back—a raw surrender—and compared it to Toby’s contained smile. The contrast felt like a physical weight in his chest. He didn't think about "home" anymore; he simply leaned into the industrial rhythm of the unit, pouring himself into the act until the golden stones of Oxford felt like a film he’d watched a lifetime ago.

Dane accelerated, becoming rhythmic and aggressive. The muscular ring of Kian's anus tightened and spasmed around him. Kian erupted in an agonizing orgasm.

Dane stayed there for a heartbeat, anchored inside the other man. He reached down and pulled out his own pulsing cock. He finished with eyes fixed on the ceiling as the ghost of his old life vanished.

I am a hollow man, my head all filled with straw. I'll cum with a bang, not a whimper.

He fractured—a thick, hot spatter across Kian’s chest. He wiped himself on the red fabric of the discarded trunks. He was muscle and lead, but as he slumped forward, he felt like a bag of flesh leaking more than just fluids.

"I'm sorry," Dane whispered, unsure who the apology was for.

     Dane stood up, gathering his clothes. He moved toward the edge of the mat where Bryan stood. Bryan gripped the back of Dane’s neck.

"It’s a heavy walk back, isn't it, lad?" Bryan whispered.

"I... I think I've broken something. Not a bone. Something else."

"Aye," Bryan grunted and stepped onto the mat, shedding his own jacket. He had his own conversation to start.

      Outside the warehouse, the temperature was a cold, wet slap. Dane stood by the corrugated doors, coat pulled tight, watching the rain dance on the oily surface of the canal. He felt empty.

A beat-up white Ford Transit pulled onto the cobbles, its engine rattling with a loose heat shield. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing Kian. The orange glow of the dashboard caught the swelling on his jaw and the dark, wet curls of his hair.

"Get in, then," Kian said, his voice a low vibration of West Midlands gravel. "'Fore you catch your death. Long walk back to the centre, innit?"

Dane climbed in. His thigh brushed against Kian’s thick, denim-clad leg. Kian didn't pull away.

Kian put the van in gear, the gearbox crunching. "What’s a lad like you doing down the Basin? Proper weird, it is. All that Oxford brains and you're out here looking to get your head kicked in," he said, eyes fixed on the rain-blurred windscreen. "You’re a long way from home, you."

"I think I am further from home than you realize, Kian," Dane replied.

      When they reached the Travelodge, the lobby was a ghost town. Dane tilted his head toward the lifts. "Fancy another round?"

Once inside the room, the door clicked shut. Dane walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on. They stripped in the narrow space, their clothes forming a multicolored pile. Dane stepped under the spray; the hot water stung the slap-mark on his cheek. Kian followed, crowding the small cubicle until they were chest to chest, steam rising around them.

Dane took the soap and worked it into a lather. He ran his hands over Kian’s shoulders, feeling the knots of muscle uncoil. His touches lingered. Kian closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold tiles as Dane’s fingers traced the purple-red blooming of a bruise on his ribs.

They took turns rinsing away the night, Kian’s hands heavy and clumsy as he scrubbed the Scholar’s back.

The shower led to the bed. They tumbled onto the sheets. It began with the mouth—deep kisses, teeth clashing in a messy, wordless conversation. Dane guided Kian’s body over his own, cocks meeting in a hungry grind. The body of each was no longer a lever to be countered, but a heat to be absorbed.

Kian’s palm cracked against Dane’s jaw. Dane snarled and returned the blow with a stinging strike to Kian’s cheek.

Finally, the Soldier hissed.

Hungry kisses followed.

When they finally broke apart, they settled into a frantic, mutual masturbation, eyes locked in the dim light. They watched each other—the way the muscles in their forearms tensed, the way the light caught the mild swelling of Kian’s jaw and the crimson mark on Dane’s cheek. It was a shared exorcism.

They finished in an eruption that left both shattered, limbs tangled in the polyester duvet. Dane drifted into a dreamless sleep, an arm draped over Kian’s chest, feeling the boy’s heart slow to a steady rhythm.

When Sunday morning arrived, Dane reached out, but his hand met cold, empty sheets. Kian was gone—vanished back into the grey concrete of Coventry without a trace.

     The Travelodge breakfast room was a brightly lit purgatory of yellow plastic and the smell of burnt toast. Dane sat at a corner table, his black coffee untouched. His body was a map of dull aches, but his mind was worse.

Then he saw Bryan limping toward the buffet. A black eye was blooming into a deep, bruised plum, and his jaw was swollen enough to tilt his face. Despite it, Bryan wore a grin of pure, pained satisfaction. He settled into the plastic chair opposite Dane with a heavy grunt.

"Morning," Bryan said. "Toast is a bit cardboard, but the tea’s wet, innit? Better than a slap in the face—though I suppose you've had enough of those."

Dane stared at him. "You look... terrible, Bryan."

"Terrible?" Bryan let out a short, dry chuckle that ended in a sharp hiss of pain. "I feel champion, lad. Had a lad from Tile Hill. Proper scrapper. We went ages before I finally got his back. Proper craftsmanship, that. None of that flashy shite."

"You are happy? Look at yourself. You can barely move."

"That’s the point, isn't it?" Bryan looked at Dane with his one good eye, the gaze steady and unblinking. "I know exactly where I start and where I end this morning. Just aches and bacon. Life's a loud, ugly thing, Dane. If it doesn't leave a mark, you weren't really there, were you?"

Dane thought of Toby’s voice message, still sitting unheard on his phone—a digital ghost from a world that didn't know how to bleed, a world of linen sheets and gentle, apologetic touches.

"I do not think I am built like you, Bryan," Dane whispered.

"No," Bryan agreed, taking an enthusiastic, painful bite of toast. His gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window, watching a white Ford Transit pull into the car park. The driver sat there, the orange glow of a cigarette ember visible through the glass. "You just haven't learned to enjoy the wreckage yet. Give it time, lad. The first few always feel like a funeral."

Bryan grunted as he stood up, moving for more tea. Out in the car park, the Transit’s lights flickered once—a brief, orange pulse—before it pulled away, vanishing into the charcoal mist of the Coventry morning.

Dane remained in the corner, a hollow man in a plastic chair. His phone vibrated on the laminate table, a small beacon of white light in the morning gloom. He let out a choked whimper as he finally read it.

> Toby: You’ll need an umbrella. x