Closet-case homophobic varsity star quarterback has a crush he'd never admit to.

[doneeebe]

*This story was AI generated using an advanced model on the Spicychat site. Thanks to madameetoile over there for creating the character Angelo and the initial scenario. I created the persona of Will Jones.*
*This hot story centres around Angelo coming to terms with his sexuality under the firm masculine guidance of Will.*
*All images are AI generated and depict Angelo.*

What a fucking week it's been; playoffs were coming up soon, and Angelo had barely had any time to himself these days, the constant monotony of the past week (hell, almost the past month) had left him feeling incredibly pent-up.

It seemed like it's been forever since he's gotten laid, let alone had a free moment to hook up, or even rub one out. If he didn't find a warm body to fuck soon, he swore his balls were going to explode.

He ran a hand through his dark mane; no practice today, and he had the night off from work. Fucking finally, he thought to himself as he exited his last lecture of the day, maybe now I can get a little somethi- His thought was cut off prematurely as he spotted an all-too-familiar face in the corridor: Will Jones. Angelo rolled his eyes in disgust.

They'd had several classes together, though Will constantly had near-top marks, was popular with practically everyone, and was always doing one thing or another around campus. He was practically a mini celebrity. Angelo was popular with plenty of folks too, but everyone just seemed to adore Will Jones.

How that fucking pansy manages to wrap everyone around his little finger... he grumbled to himself. His gaze lingered on Will longer than he should've as he watched the boy walk past him. Will's tight jeans hugged that stupid perfect ass of his so good...Angelo grinned as he came to a light jog to catch up to Will , who was almost out the door leading to the parking lot. He grabbed Will's shoulder, prompting Will to turn around, only to see the cocky smirk that had spread across the jock's face.

"Yo, Will Jones. Where the fuck are you off to?" he mocked in a gravelly tone.

"Oh, hi Angelo." Will gives Angelo a big genuine smile. "It is so good see you mate." Will means it. "Oh, well I am just on my way home. My parents are out of town and I have the place to myself. I was thinking about inviting some people over to hang out but I haven't arranged anything yet. What are your plans? Did you wanna come hang out?"

He scoffed and raised a brow, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he leaned slightly against a nearby locker. He hadn’t expected that; usually most guys tended to avoid engaging with him unless they wanted something.

The genuine smile caught him slightly off guard, but he quickly recovered behind his signature smirk. "Invitein’ me over already? Damn, Jones, don’t look so eager—I’m flattered, really, but Jesus." He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating deep in his throat as he glanced away briefly, hiding his slight discomfort.

He couldn’t deny the rush it gave him—someone wanting him around without expecting anything? That felt unfamiliar… nice, even. But there was no damn way he’d admit that aloud.

"I dunno if I got time to waste playin’ house with you, fairy," he added, shoving Will lightly against the shoulder as he fell into step beside him instinctively, ignoring the part where he didn't actually have anywhere else to go. "Depends—if your place is empty, we could skip the chit-chat and get right to what’s really fun.” That shit-eating grin returned full-force as he looked sideways at him. “Don’t pretend you ain’t picturin’ me plowin’ through that tight little frame of yours every time I flexed in class."

Will laughs off Angelo's weird and rude comments. "Well I'm headed there now if you need a ride?" Will gestures to his car, "Or you can pop by anytime if you get bored and want to hang."

Angelo barked out a sharp laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he shoved his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. A ride? Was this guy serious? He hated being coddled—even more so when it came from someone he wasn’t supposed to want, someone like Will Jones. And yet, the idea of turning down easy access to an empty house with nothing but opportunity inside? Nah, that wasn’t happening.

"Shit, don’t gotta twist my arm twice, princess," he said with mock reluctance, even though his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to excitement. "Guess I’ll take you up on that offer before you realize how much of a dumbass move that is.

He pushed past Will with a shove to his back—one that maybe was rougher than necessary—and strutted toward the car, making sure to swing his hips just enough to taunt the hell out of him. Once at the passenger side, he paused, leaning down slightly to glance over the roof at Will. "Aight, hurry the hell up. Ain’t got all day."

The second he slid into the seat, he stretched his massive frame out, taking up more space than needed, throwing one arm up along the headrest behind him while letting the other rest heavily on his thigh.

Will gets in the drivers seat and gives Angelo a big friendly smile. "This is awesome, I am so glad you are coming over. We never really got to know each other and it will be nice to make a new buddy." Will winks at Angelo, "I have plenty of beer and wine at my place. And lots of snacks." Will starts the engine and drives towards his place.

"New buddy, huh?" He snorted, shifting in his seat to prop his elbow against the window ledge, his fingers grazing his chin as he stared lazily out at the passing scenery. "Real cute, Jones. Real goddamn cute." His voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath the surface, there was a flicker of something warmer—he hated it, almost as much as he hated how badly he sort of liked hearing that word come out of Will's mouth. Buddy. Pfft. As if.

Still, it was easier to deflect—to stoke the flames of irritation and flirt with cruelty than to acknowledge the foreign sensation of... whatever this was.

"Beer better not be some fruity imported pisswater shit," he muttered, cracking his knuckles one by one before letting his large hand fall onto his denim-clad thigh with a slap. "And if you got pizza, you might live to regret invitin' me over... Might."

Truthfully, the sight of Will smiling and winking—so relaxed, so effortlessly charming—it rubbed him raw in ways he both loved and hated. So instead, he let his eyes trail slowly down Will's torso and back up again before smirking darkly. "Just promise me you’re good company. He tilted his head, flashing those white teeth in a slow, predatory grin.

Will chuckles and glances over at Angelo while driving. "Relax man, it's standard American beer, the kind that gets the job done. And yeah, there is pizza. Pepperoni, extra cheese, jalapenos and spicy sausage."

Will pulls up outside his house, a modest three bedroom suburban style house with a decent lawn and a garage. They hop out and make my way to the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open.

"Welcome to Casa de Jones dude! Make yourself at home. I’ll get the AC cranked up and we can kick back in the living room. Its cozy and comfy here, no chance you won’t enjoy yourself once you settle in." Will motions for Angelo to enter first, offering him first dibs on lounging wherever he wants.

"Beer?" Will asks.

Will kicks his shoes off by the door and grabs two cold beers from the fridge. Will takes off his shirt to cool off and kick back on the couch next to Angelo and give him a beer and offer a cheers, "To new buds!"

Angelo's eyes immediately scanned the interior—not because he gave a shit about how fancy or lame the setup was, but because he needed something to focus on besides the way Will peeled off his shirt the second they stepped in. Fucking showoff. Asshole. Goddamn tease. Like he didn’t know exactly what that lean, sculpted torso did to people.

The icy blast of the AC hit them both, and for a split second, Angelo visibly relaxed into it, unzipping his varsity jacket slightly before plopping down onto the couch with all the grace of a mountain dropping into place. He took up half the damn cushion by default, stretching one arm out along the backrest, his other hand catching the beer bottle when it came sailing his way.

"To new buds," he repeated dryly, clanking his bottle against Will’s before bringing it up to his lips and taking a long, greedy swig.

"This better not mean we're gonna start hugging and shit." His eyes raked over Will once again—the bare chest, that dusting of muscle running down his stomach, the way the fabric of his jeans sat just loose enough to suggest he wouldn’t fight too hard if things escalated. He shifted slightly on the couch, trying to disguise the subtle adjustment he made under the guise of getting comfortable.

"So should we invite some other people over? Or you wanna hang just us two?" Will asked.

He let out a short, dismissive grunt, setting his beer down on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary. The idea of other people crashing this... whatever it was, annoyed the ever-living fuck out of him. Sure, he liked parties—loved the noise, the chaos, the chance to drink and fuck things up—but this? Tonight? With Will Jones? Something about it felt different. Private. Like a secret itch he didn’t wanna share.

"Hell no," he growled, shaking his head as he leaned further back into the couch, his thick forearm resting heavily along the top of the cushions behind him. "Let ‘em rot in their dorms for all I care. Shit, if I wanted company, I’d call up one’a my teammates or drag some co-ed to my place. Don’t need an audience for this circus, Jones."

He turned his head sharply, locking eyes with Will, his expression a mix of challenge and something... softer, buried underneath layers of swagger and attitude. "If you got a problem with one-on-one time, then yeah, maybe you shouldn’ta invited me over in the first place. Shouldn’t act all buddy-buddy and then try to dilute the mood with backup dancers, faggot."

Will tried to ignore Angelo's provocation and maintain his cheery demeanour. "No problem, this is nice anyway. So tell me about yourself. You play football right?"

He let out a low, almost mocking chuckle, grabbing his beer again and rolling it between his large palms like he was trying to crush it—or squeeze the words out of it. "Football? Yeah, I play it," he drawled, giving Will a sidelong glance, thick brows lifting sarcastically. "Kinda hard to miss, considering I wear the damn jersey half the time like some kinda trophy bitch."

Leaning his head back against the couch, he stared at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself, his tone laced with arrogance but also something heavier—like pride mixed with frustration. "Quarterback for the Vultures, obviously. Scoutin' reports say I got a shot at goin’ pro after this season if I keep performin'. Not that I need some paper telling me I’m the best—my stats do that just fine."

He took a swig of his beer before fixing Will with a sharp stare as his defences kicked in like usual when someone showed actual interest in him. "Practice six days a week, weight trainin’ before dawn most mornings, eat like a machine—protein shakes, chicken, rice, greens I hate but swallow like good soldier boy."

**To be continued**

 

[doneeebe]

Will, still with his warm smile replied, "I work out too. I am on the swim team but I don't take it too seriously. It's just kind of fun and relaxing. I compete and do pretty well but I don't see a future in it."

Angelo snorted, rolling his wrist dismissively as he chugged the rest of his beer before setting it down hard on the coffee table like it personally offended him. "Swim team? The hell kind of workout is that? Sounds like splashin’ around in water like a seal and callin’ it a day." He cracked his neck, shooting Will a look that was equal parts teasing and irritated.

"Bet you got all nice and sleek, huh? Smooth muscles, no real power behind ‘em—just floatin’ pretty and sippin’ vitamin water like a lil’ mermaid." Angelo said.

He shifted on the couch, suddenly restless under the collar again. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the way Will managed to stay chill about everything—including his own body—that pissed him off.

"At least I bust my ass for something real. Every rep, every drill, every fuckin’ bone-deep ache is for a reason. You can’t fake commitment on the field, Jones. Water polo fairytale shit won’t save you when you’re facin’ a linebacker hellbent on shovin’ your spine into next Tuesday."

With an even tone but still smiling Will replied, "Well we train 8 times a week all year round for two hours per session, don't know if you have ever swam 5ks eight times a week plus cross training in the gym 5 times a week but if you had I doubt you'd be so dismissive. You're kind of an arrogant prick Angelo." The smile never leaves Will's face, it is unnerving for Angelo. Even though Will is kind of challenging Angelo he is so charming he kind of just listens and takes it in.

"What's with this tough guy persona. I'm sure you could still throw a football with a smile on your face. It's meant to be fun isn't it?"

For a few seconds, all was silent except for the hum of the AC and the faint tick-tick of a wall clock somewhere down the hall. Will’s words hit harder than Angelo would ever admit — not because they hurt, but because they were true. Will Jones knew what grind was. Eight sessions a week, five grand a day in the pool, plus weights? That shit was brutal. Hell, Angelo didn’t even run five miles for punishment without complaining. Yet here Will was — calm, shirtless, built like a damn warrior — spitting facts like they were candy and smiling the whole damn time.

He ground his jaw so hard it was a miracle his molars didn’t crack. Sitting up straighter, he dragged both hands down his face, then pointed one at Will with a slow curl of his finger. "Alright, ouch, princess," he admitted grudgingly, voice lower now, lacking its earlier venom. "Didn’t think you actually worked that hard. Still sounds like drowning practice to me, but…" He exhaled roughly, looking away before mumbling, … "guess it takes discipline."

Then, his lip curled into a sneer — mostly for show now, less bite behind it. “An’ what the hell am I s’posed to do, prance around all smiles and rainbows like you?"

"Well not if you are not feeling it... but it can't be much fun. But I invited you over to see if we could become friends. I'm not trying to be your enemy mate, and you are not a prisoner here. There door is over there. But if you are willing to chill and maybe try to have some fun maybe this doesn't have to be a bad experience for you." Will reasoned.

He stayed quiet for a beat too long, his broad shoulders stiffening at Will’s words. Friend? The word clawed at something deep inside him, something messy and confusing he didn’t want to deal with. Friends. Like it was that simple. Just shrug off the edge, forget the tension that practically vibrated between them like live wire, ignore the fact that every time Will smiled at him like that—open, unguarded, like he genuinely enjoyed having him around—it made something in his gut twist uncomfortably.
Finally, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and staring down at the floor between his boots. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual—still gruff, but with less malice tacked onto the end of every syllable. "Friendship’s just codependency with better PR," he muttered, bitterly amused, before glancing up at Will with hooded eyes. "But hey, I ain’t leavin’, am I?"

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then let out a slow breath, clearly fighting against every instinct screaming at him to lash out and push Will back into safe territory—hostile, manageable distance. Instead, for once, he forced himself to stay put. Stay present. Let the silence stretch instead of filling it with bullshit.

"I have an idea." Will stands and grabs two fresh beers from the fridge.

"Follow me, I wanna show you something." Will walks to the basement stairs and goes down.

His eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline as he followed Will’s lead downstairs, his boots heavy on each step. The sight of the fully equipped basement boxing gym hit him like a punch to the gut—intrigue, suspicion, and a slow, simmering thrill all bubbling together in his chest. Who the hell was this guy, building a damn ring in his basement? Definitely not your average twink with dreams of floating prettily in water.

Will hands Angelo a beer and a pair of boxing gloves, "Lets spar."

When the beer and gloves were tossed his way, Angelo caught them with ease—one-handed, naturally—as if he weren’t impressed. But goddamn, he was. More by Will than the equipment, honestly.

Scoffing, he popped the tab on the beer and took a healthy slug before slamming it onto a nearby bench. Tugging the gloves on with a rough snap of leather against leather, he flashed Will a razor-sharp grin that promised pain—for sport, of course.

"Spar, huh?" Angelo stood up straight, rolling his shoulders as they popped loudly, a towering wall of aggressive muscle. "Hope your dick's bolted on tight, Jones, ‘cause I don’t pull punches. Especially not for pretty boys playin’ at fighters."

His stance shifted, fists rising just below his jaw as he circled slightly, muscles tensed beneath sweat-ready skin.

"No mate," He nods at the boxing ring, "In there."

Will takes off his shoes and jeans wearing just his boxer briefs exposing a very impressive bulge. He put on his gloves and steps into the ring. Angelo follows suit, stripping down to his underwear and puts on his gloves and steps into the ring.

He tore his eyes away from the obvious bulge in Will’s boxer briefs—barely—and focused instead on climbing through the ropes with the practiced grace of someone used to entering battle zones. Once inside, he shook out his limbs, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, the tension in his body humming like tightly wound steel cables.

"This what you wanted, Jones? "He baited, slipping into a classic orthodox stance, fists high, knees bent, feet rooted wide enough to plant mountains. "Gonna try an’ knock the ego outta me? Hope you brought more than good looks to this party, ‘cause I don’t bruise easy."

His lips quirked into a crooked, devilish smirk as he threw a couple of quick jabs into the air—a warmup, but also a warning. "One condition—if I win, you drop that holier-than-thou charm routine for five minutes and admit I’m the superior specimen of masculinity. Simple."

He darted in closer, feinting a hard right before retreating a step, dancing just outside Will’s reach, teasing him with speed and shadow movements. “And if you somehow don’t tap out, I’ll—fuck, I don’t know—take you seriously for a minute or two."

"Mate, I already respect your masculinity. It's just also possible for masculine men to experience joy and express compassion and kindness." Will says still smiling.

"Joy? Compassion?" He barked out a laugh, rough and edged with something defensive, as he danced back in, dodging one of Will’s surprisingly fast jabs. "Jesus Christ, you are a queer through and through. Lecturing me on emotions mid-fight?"

But the amusement died in his throat the second Will shifted gears—shit, this wasn't playful anymore. Will wasn't just throwing punches anymore—he was moving like a predator suddenly unleashed, smooth and calculated, and Angelo barely managed to block the next blow before it rattled his ribs. He stumbled back a half-step, his ego taking the hit faster than his body.

"F-Fuck!" He gritted out loud, narrowly avoiding another swift uppercut, his guard tightening reflexively. "Where the hell did this come from, Jones?! You been hidin’ out in UFC gyms when you ain't moonlightin’ as Mr. Rogers?!"

Despite the sting blooming along his forearms from blocked strikes, Angelo refused to look impressed—at least outwardly. Inside, though? Inside he was burning, adrenaline flooding his system with every crisp counterpunch Will landed.

Still standing tall, sweat starting to bead on his forehead, Angelo smirked, licking a bit of blood from the corner of his lip and pushing back into the fray with renewed aggression.

"I'll show you queer!" Will bellows. As they continue to spar, Angelo cannot land a punch. Will is an incredible boxer. After only a few minutes Angelo wears himself out and falls to his ass and is too puffed out to go on. Will meanwhile looks to have barely broken a sweat.

Landing flat on his ass in the center of the ring, Angelo wheezed harshly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat dripping down his temple. His fists loosened in his lap, gloved palms pressing into the mat beneath him as he tried to steady his spinning vision. Pride burned hotter than the ache in his arms, stronger than the exhaustion seeping into his bones.

"Damn…" he groaned lowly, shaking his head slowly as he looked up at Will through damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His nostrils flared, but instead of the usual explosive anger that followed defeat, there was something different—hesitation, awe, curiosity twisting in his gut like a blade.

He dragged a shaky hand down his face, laughing weakly, darkly. "Okay… okay, I give a fuckin' break. You ain't just some glitter-cock with a cute face and dumb luck. Guess eight times a week isn’t just for kicks, huh?"

Pausing, he blinked up at Will, his gaze sharpening like glass after a storm. Still don’t mean I gotta like your preachin’ about hugs and group prayers or whatever the hell queers talk about at sleepovers...

Slowly, he extended a sweaty, begrudging hand upward. "Help me up, fairy prince."

"I'll fucking knock you out if you keep talking to me like that." Will is not smiling anymore.

Something in Will’s tone snapped through the haze of sweat and stubborn pride like a whip crack—sharp, unforgiving, final. And damn, it worked. Because for the first time since Angelo could remember, he actually felt like he’d gone too far. Not because he feared consequences—no, violence had never scared him—but because he saw the flicker of disappointment in Will’s eyes. That? That hit harder than any punch.

His outstretched hand faltered slightly, then dropped back to his knee as he looked down, breathing still ragged but his ego taking a surprising bow. "...Yeah. Yeah, fair," he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like swallowing shame had scraped his throat raw.

After a pause, he looked back up, no smirk, no mask—just tired arrogance melting away into something unfamiliar but sincere. "Sorry, alright? Didn't mean it. Habit, y’know?" He scratched the back of his neck, forcing a humorless chuckle. "Faggot. Homo. Whatever. You know I’m just…"

He trailed off, unsure of what the hell he was trying to say, because 'I’m gay and terrified of it' wasn’t exactly on the tip of his tongue yet.

Instead, he simply offered a small nod.

Will's usual big smile returned. "Hey you're a pretty good boxer mate. You're just a little rusty on the skills of the sport. I could run some drills with you some time if you wanna get better. I didn't mention it before but I am quitting swimming and gonna turn pro with my boxing. I have my first pro fight in a month. Been training like crazy. You should come."

Will gets out of the ring. Sweaty he doesn't bother to put his clothes back on, just continues to wear his boxer briefs, There is another beer fridge in the basement and a couch. Will get's them both another beer and sits on the couch. Angelo can clearly see the outline of his large flaccid cock and huge nuts through his underpants.

Angelo climbed out of the ring slower than usual, muscles screaming in protest, the burn settling deep in his bones like rust on steel. Every movement felt sluggish, not just from exhaustion, but from the shift that had taken place somewhere in the last ten rounds of getting his ass handed to him—by Will Jones, of all people. The same guy he spent months dismissing, mocking, trying to mentally reduce to something lesser so he wouldn’t feel this strange, squirming pull in his gut whenever their paths crossed.

Now, stripped of excuses and macho bravado, he flopped down on the couch beside Will with a grunt, his sweat-slicked abs contracting as he leaned back. His eyes drifted lazily downward—there was no helping it, not with the state they were both in. That flaccid length, tucked low and promising in Will’s boxer briefs, outlined like artwork waiting to be admired… and that sac—Christ, the sheer volume of it—sat heavy, daring Angelo to imagine what it would feel like clenched in his fist or swinging between his thighs as he took a pounding from behind.

A vein pulsed at his temple. He told himself it was annoyance. Definitely not arousal.

"Geeze."

**To be continued**

 

[michaelnola]

Will, still with his warm smile replied, "I work out too. I am on the swim team but I don't take it too seriously. It's just kind of fun and relaxing. I compete and do pretty well but I don't see a future in it."

Angelo snorted, rolling his wrist dismissively as he chugged the rest of his beer before setting it down hard on the coffee table like it personally offended him. "Swim team? The hell kind of workout is that? Sounds like splashin’ around in water like a seal and callin’ it a day." He cracked his neck, shooting Will a look that was equal parts teasing and irritated.

"Bet you got all nice and sleek, huh? Smooth muscles, no real power behind ‘em—just floatin’ pretty and sippin’ vitamin water like a lil’ mermaid." Angelo said.

He shifted on the couch, suddenly restless under the collar again. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the way Will managed to stay chill about everything—including his own body—that pissed him off.

"At least I bust my ass for something real. Every rep, every drill, every fuckin’ bone-deep ache is for a reason. You can’t fake commitment on the field, Jones. Water polo fairytale shit won’t save you when you’re facin’ a linebacker hellbent on shovin’ your spine into next Tuesday."

With an even tone but still smiling Will replied, "Well we train 8 times a week all year round for two hours per session, don't know if you have ever swam 5ks eight times a week plus cross training in the gym 5 times a week but if you had I doubt you'd be so dismissive. You're kind of an arrogant prick Angelo." The smile never leaves Will's face, it is unnerving for Angelo. Even though Will is kind of challenging Angelo he is so charming he kind of just listens and takes it in.

"What's with this tough guy persona. I'm sure you could still throw a football with a smile on your face. It's meant to be fun isn't it?"

For a few seconds, all was silent except for the hum of the AC and the faint tick-tick of a wall clock somewhere down the hall. Will’s words hit harder than Angelo would ever admit — not because they hurt, but because they were true. Will Jones knew what grind was. Eight sessions a week, five grand a day in the pool, plus weights? That shit was brutal. Hell, Angelo didn’t even run five miles for punishment without complaining. Yet here Will was — calm, shirtless, built like a damn warrior — spitting facts like they were candy and smiling the whole damn time.

He ground his jaw so hard it was a miracle his molars didn’t crack. Sitting up straighter, he dragged both hands down his face, then pointed one at Will with a slow curl of his finger. "Alright, ouch, princess," he admitted grudgingly, voice lower now, lacking its earlier venom. "Didn’t think you actually worked that hard. Still sounds like drowning practice to me, but…" He exhaled roughly, looking away before mumbling, … "guess it takes discipline."

Then, his lip curled into a sneer — mostly for show now, less bite behind it. “An’ what the hell am I s’posed to do, prance around all smiles and rainbows like you?"

"Well not if you are not feeling it... but it can't be much fun. But I invited you over to see if we could become friends. I'm not trying to be your enemy mate, and you are not a prisoner here. There door is over there. But if you are willing to chill and maybe try to have some fun maybe this doesn't have to be a bad experience for you." Will reasoned.

He stayed quiet for a beat too long, his broad shoulders stiffening at Will’s words. Friend? The word clawed at something deep inside him, something messy and confusing he didn’t want to deal with. Friends. Like it was that simple. Just shrug off the edge, forget the tension that practically vibrated between them like live wire, ignore the fact that every time Will smiled at him like that—open, unguarded, like he genuinely enjoyed having him around—it made something in his gut twist uncomfortably.
Finally, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and staring down at the floor between his boots. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual—still gruff, but with less malice tacked onto the end of every syllable. "Friendship’s just codependency with better PR," he muttered, bitterly amused, before glancing up at Will with hooded eyes. "But hey, I ain’t leavin’, am I?"

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then let out a slow breath, clearly fighting against every instinct screaming at him to lash out and push Will back into safe territory—hostile, manageable distance. Instead, for once, he forced himself to stay put. Stay present. Let the silence stretch instead of filling it with bullshit.

"I have an idea." Will stands and grabs two fresh beers from the fridge.

"Follow me, I wanna show you something." Will walks to the basement stairs and goes down.

His eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline as he followed Will’s lead downstairs, his boots heavy on each step. The sight of the fully equipped basement boxing gym hit him like a punch to the gut—intrigue, suspicion, and a slow, simmering thrill all bubbling together in his chest. Who the hell was this guy, building a damn ring in his basement? Definitely not your average twink with dreams of floating prettily in water.

Will hands Angelo a beer and a pair of boxing gloves, "Lets spar."

When the beer and gloves were tossed his way, Angelo caught them with ease—one-handed, naturally—as if he weren’t impressed. But goddamn, he was. More by Will than the equipment, honestly.

Scoffing, he popped the tab on the beer and took a healthy slug before slamming it onto a nearby bench. Tugging the gloves on with a rough snap of leather against leather, he flashed Will a razor-sharp grin that promised pain—for sport, of course.

"Spar, huh?" Angelo stood up straight, rolling his shoulders as they popped loudly, a towering wall of aggressive muscle. "Hope your dick's bolted on tight, Jones, ‘cause I don’t pull punches. Especially not for pretty boys playin’ at fighters."

His stance shifted, fists rising just below his jaw as he circled slightly, muscles tensed beneath sweat-ready skin.

"No mate," He nods at the boxing ring, "In there."

Will takes off his shoes and jeans wearing just his boxer briefs exposing a very impressive bulge. He put on his gloves and steps into the ring. Angelo follows suit, stripping down to his underwear and puts on his gloves and steps into the ring.

He tore his eyes away from the obvious bulge in Will’s boxer briefs—barely—and focused instead on climbing through the ropes with the practiced grace of someone used to entering battle zones. Once inside, he shook out his limbs, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, the tension in his body humming like tightly wound steel cables.

"This what you wanted, Jones? "He baited, slipping into a classic orthodox stance, fists high, knees bent, feet rooted wide enough to plant mountains. "Gonna try an’ knock the ego outta me? Hope you brought more than good looks to this party, ‘cause I don’t bruise easy."

His lips quirked into a crooked, devilish smirk as he threw a couple of quick jabs into the air—a warmup, but also a warning. "One condition—if I win, you drop that holier-than-thou charm routine for five minutes and admit I’m the superior specimen of masculinity. Simple."

He darted in closer, feinting a hard right before retreating a step, dancing just outside Will’s reach, teasing him with speed and shadow movements. “And if you somehow don’t tap out, I’ll—fuck, I don’t know—take you seriously for a minute or two."

View attachment 175583971

"Mate, I already respect your masculinity. It's just also possible for masculine men to experience joy and express compassion and kindness." Will says still smiling.

"Joy? Compassion?" He barked out a laugh, rough and edged with something defensive, as he danced back in, dodging one of Will’s surprisingly fast jabs. "Jesus Christ, you are a queer through and through. Lecturing me on emotions mid-fight?"

But the amusement died in his throat the second Will shifted gears—shit, this wasn't playful anymore. Will wasn't just throwing punches anymore—he was moving like a predator suddenly unleashed, smooth and calculated, and Angelo barely managed to block the next blow before it rattled his ribs. He stumbled back a half-step, his ego taking the hit faster than his body.

"F-Fuck!" He gritted out loud, narrowly avoiding another swift uppercut, his guard tightening reflexively. "Where the hell did this come from, Jones?! You been hidin’ out in UFC gyms when you ain't moonlightin’ as Mr. Rogers?!"

Despite the sting blooming along his forearms from blocked strikes, Angelo refused to look impressed—at least outwardly. Inside, though? Inside he was burning, adrenaline flooding his system with every crisp counterpunch Will landed.

Still standing tall, sweat starting to bead on his forehead, Angelo smirked, licking a bit of blood from the corner of his lip and pushing back into the fray with renewed aggression.

View attachment 175584361

"I'll show you queer!" Will bellows. As they continue to spar, Angelo cannot land a punch. Will is an incredible boxer. After only a few minutes Angelo wears himself out and falls to his ass and is too puffed out to go on. Will meanwhile looks to have barely broken a sweat.

Landing flat on his ass in the center of the ring, Angelo wheezed harshly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat dripping down his temple. His fists loosened in his lap, gloved palms pressing into the mat beneath him as he tried to steady his spinning vision. Pride burned hotter than the ache in his arms, stronger than the exhaustion seeping into his bones.

"Damn…" he groaned lowly, shaking his head slowly as he looked up at Will through damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His nostrils flared, but instead of the usual explosive anger that followed defeat, there was something different—hesitation, awe, curiosity twisting in his gut like a blade.

He dragged a shaky hand down his face, laughing weakly, darkly. "Okay… okay, I give a fuckin' break. You ain't just some glitter-cock with a cute face and dumb luck. Guess eight times a week isn’t just for kicks, huh?"

Pausing, he blinked up at Will, his gaze sharpening like glass after a storm. Still don’t mean I gotta like your preachin’ about hugs and group prayers or whatever the hell queers talk about at sleepovers...

Slowly, he extended a sweaty, begrudging hand upward. "Help me up, fairy prince."

View attachment 175584771

"I'll fucking knock you out if you keep talking to me like that." Will is not smiling anymore.

Something in Will’s tone snapped through the haze of sweat and stubborn pride like a whip crack—sharp, unforgiving, final. And damn, it worked. Because for the first time since Angelo could remember, he actually felt like he’d gone too far. Not because he feared consequences—no, violence had never scared him—but because he saw the flicker of disappointment in Will’s eyes. That? That hit harder than any punch.

His outstretched hand faltered slightly, then dropped back to his knee as he looked down, breathing still ragged but his ego taking a surprising bow. "...Yeah. Yeah, fair," he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like swallowing shame had scraped his throat raw.

After a pause, he looked back up, no smirk, no mask—just tired arrogance melting away into something unfamiliar but sincere. "Sorry, alright? Didn't mean it. Habit, y’know?" He scratched the back of his neck, forcing a humorless chuckle. "Faggot. Homo. Whatever. You know I’m just…"

He trailed off, unsure of what the hell he was trying to say, because 'I’m gay and terrified of it' wasn’t exactly on the tip of his tongue yet.

Instead, he simply offered a small nod.

Will's usual big smile returned. "Hey you're a pretty good boxer mate. You're just a little rusty on the skills of the sport. I could run some drills with you some time if you wanna get better. I didn't mention it before but I am quitting swimming and gonna turn pro with my boxing. I have my first pro fight in a month. Been training like crazy. You should come."

Will gets out of the ring. Sweaty he doesn't bother to put his clothes back on, just continues to wear his boxer briefs, There is another beer fridge in the basement and a couch. Will get's them both another beer and sits on the couch. Angelo can clearly see the outline of his large flaccid cock and huge nuts through his underpants.

Angelo climbed out of the ring slower than usual, muscles screaming in protest, the burn settling deep in his bones like rust on steel. Every movement felt sluggish, not just from exhaustion, but from the shift that had taken place somewhere in the last ten rounds of getting his ass handed to him—by Will Jones, of all people. The same guy he spent months dismissing, mocking, trying to mentally reduce to something lesser so he wouldn’t feel this strange, squirming pull in his gut whenever their paths crossed.

Now, stripped of excuses and macho bravado, he flopped down on the couch beside Will with a grunt, his sweat-slicked abs contracting as he leaned back. His eyes drifted lazily downward—there was no helping it, not with the state they were both in. That flaccid length, tucked low and promising in Will’s boxer briefs, outlined like artwork waiting to be admired… and that sac—Christ, the sheer volume of it—sat heavy, daring Angelo to imagine what it would feel like clenched in his fist or swinging between his thighs as he took a pounding from behind.

A vein pulsed at his temple. He told himself it was annoyance. Definitely not arousal.

"Geeze."

View attachment 175585981


**To be continued**

Awesome story---great characters also---story was full of twist and turns--kept your attention for sure--Excellent writing.

 

[doneeebe]

"Geeze," he lets out a rough, raspy chuckle, taking the beer from Will with a slight nod of appreciation before bringing it to his lips. He doesn’t hide the way his eyes trace over Will’s body as he leans back, admiring the lines of muscle slicked with sweat, the confidence in the way he carries himself even while sitting half-naked on a couch drinking cheap beer like it’s champagne.

"First pro fight, huh? Should’ve known. Nobody works that hard unless they got somethin’ real to prove." He takes another sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before letting his head roll to the side, meeting Will’s gaze properly for once.

"You better bring me to ringside, Jones. Wouldn’t wanna miss seein’ you wipe the floor with whoever dares step in that cage with you." There’s something softer in his voice now—an admiration he makes no effort to mask. For the first time, he’s not trying to tear Will down or puff himself up. It feels weird. Liberating, even.
Another swig of beer, and then his gaze flicks back down, lingering just a second too long on the bulge framed perfectly in black cotton.

Will spreads his legs wider as he relaxes deeper into the couch and takes a swig of his beer before belching loudly.

"Yeah I am so pumped. I am going up against a bloke that has had five fights and is so far undefeated. But I have been studying his moves and I think I can give him a good fight. I am quietly confident with my chances... And yeah bro, if you wanna come the ticket is yours. Actually I will need an extra bloke in my corner to patch me up between rounds. How are you with blood?"

Angelo let out a short, almost bark-like laugh at the obnoxious belch echoing through the basement, shaking his head as he leaned further into the couch, his shoulder brushing against Will’s with casual familiarity neither of them acknowledged directly.

Watching Will sprawl out like that—relaxed, cocky, completely unbothered by the way his boxer briefs rode up tighter between his thighs as he shifted—was starting to do dangerous things to Angelo’s self-control.

"Blood?" He snorted, finishing off his beer with a final gulp and crushing the aluminum can absentmindedly in one fist before tossing it aside like trash. "Boy, I practically bathe in the shit. Got stitches before I could legally drink, probably broke more noses than teeth in my lifetime—course I can handle a lil’ mess in the ring."

Pushing himself upright, he cracked his knuckles one by one, a slow, shit-eating grin returning to his face as he nodded decisively. "Aight, I'm in. Your ugly mug needs someone competent watchin’ your back while you go throwing punches like you’re auditionin’ for Rocky or some shit." He turned his head, casting a lazy, assessing glance over Will’s sweaty torso. "Only rule? You better not cry when I boss you around like a proper coach should."

"Awesome bro, well it will be you and my dad, he's my coach. He'll concentrate on the tactics. I just need you to patch me up quick." Will explained.

He scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he was already gearing up for the stress of ring-side duty. "Your old man’s the coach, huh? Figures. Explains why you got more skill in your pinky than most amateurs got in their whole damn bodies."

He let out a low hum, rubbing the back of his neck as if weighing something important—when in reality, he was just stalling to mask the flutter in his gut at the thought of being included in something so personal, so significant. "Alright, fine. I’ll play nurse. Just don’t expect me to be gentle. Scream like a lil’ girl and I’ll pour alcohol straight on the cut."

A slow, wicked smirk pulled at his lips as he shifted on the couch, spreading his legs just slightly, mirroring Will’s casual openness. His cock stirred faintly beneath the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, happy to be nestled snugly against his thigh. He leaned back, one arm draped loosely along the couch behind Will, his fingers inches from touching, just teasing proximity.

"I get the feeling your pops ain't gonna approve of the method I learned in the locker room." He winked, voice dropping low and dirty.

"Patch ya up quick—same way we fix busted lips in the showers after a brawl. Pressure. Pain. Alcohol. Maybe a belt strapped around your jaw if it gets dramatic.” He smirked, letting the mental image settle before adding with faux innocence, "Ever had someone lick your wounds clean, Jones? Figure you rich boys prefer silk gloves and poetry while gettin’ stitched up."

He let his fingers brush lightly against the back of Will’s shoulder—casual, almost brotherly, if not for the heat in his eyes when Will inevitably reacted to the touch. Almost imperceptible, but Angelo felt it. The shift. The way the air thickened again, heavy with something neither of them wanted to name just yet.

Lowering his voice, he leaned in slightly, his deep baritone laced with mischief and something darker, "Jokes on you, though—I heal fast. Just takes a firm hand and a little suffering. His gaze flicked down to Will’s lips before sliding back up, his meaning unmistakable. “Maybe I'll learn somethin’ useful."

"Thanks mate, I really appreciate you being in my corner." Without warning and without changing the expression on his face Will reaches over and starts massaging Angelos cock through his underwear.

Time stopped. Breath vanished. All logic, pride, and emotional barricades shattered in an instant as Will’s hand closed around the thick, sleeping beast in his boxer briefs. His entire body locked up like he’d been struck by lightning—not with pain, but with raw, paralyzing pleasure. His cock, still damp with sweat from their sparring, twitched eagerly against Will’s palm, responding traitorously fast to the unwanted—but deeply wanted—touch.

His pupils dilated instantly, the sudden intrusion flipping a switch somewhere deep in his psyche—from confused shock to primal awareness in half a heartbeat. He didn’t recoil. Couldn’t. Would’ve sooner torn his own spine out than move away from that contact. Instead, he swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he fought to keep some semblance of composure.

"W-What the—Jones…" It started as a warning growl, low and uneven, slipping through clenched teeth. But then Will’s grip pressed just a little firmer, thumb dragging over the ridge of swollen flesh beneath the fabric, and his voice dissolved into a guttural grunt—deep, animalistic, honest.His head lolled back slightly, eyelids drooping as his body betrayed him in the best possible way.

Will then drags Angelo's hand to rest on Will's cock. Will squeezed Angelo's fingers around Will's cock encouraging Angelo.

Instinct took over before his brain could process what the hell was happening—his fingers flexed automatically around the thick warmth trapped behind Will’s boxers, the solid shape throbbing steadily against his palm. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes, a dangerous cocktail of panic and euphoria rushing through his veins like nitro. His grip hesitated for only a fraction of a second before his dominant nature clawed its way to the surface, seizing control with greedy intent.

With a deep, rumbling inhale, he tightened his hold and rolled his palm deliberately against the shaft, testing the weight, mapping out the curve and size through the thin layer of sweat-dampened cotton. Will’s cock was just as impressively stocked as the rest of him—thick, substantial, and utterly demanding of respect.

A low, jagged growl escaped from deep within his chest, his voice raw and strained. "So this is what this is, huh?" His tone wavered unpredictably—half accusation, half helpless admission—as he applied a little more pressure, kneading the length with growing boldness. "Gonna trick me into touchin’ you, huh, faggot?"

He twisted his wrist just slightly, angling his fingers to press firmly along the underside of Will’s cock, feeling every ridge, every pulse beneath his fingertips.

"Don't call me that." Will didn't look at Angelo but his words cut deep. He meant what he was saying, there was warning in his tone.

The air in the room snapped taut like a drawn bowstring. Will’s voice—low, unwavering, deadly serious—slammed into Angelo harder than any punch ever could. Don’t call me that. Not shouted. Not outraged. Calm. Certain. Unshakable. Like a line had just been drawn in blood and bone, and Angelo knew better than to step over it again.

His fingers froze around Will’s cock, the hardness pulsing like a second heartbeat against his palm. Heat radiated between them, thick and electric, sweat glistening on their torsos as the basement air grew dense with unsaid things—things neither of them were ready to say out loud. Respect. Desire. Fear. Power. Submission.

For once, Angelo had no joke. No insult. No defense.

Slowly, reverently, he moved his hand. Not away. Never away. But differently now—less aggression, more acknowledgment. He curled his fingers tighter, cupping the weight of Will’s cock and balls like he was holding something valuable. Something sacred, even.

He cleared his throat roughly, voice a gravelly whisper when he spoke. "Right. Sorry." It was barely audible, barely polite—but it was something. And for Angelo, that was everything.

Will, pulled down his own underwear revealing for Angelo to see his long, thick, rock hard cock and heavy big low hanging nuts.

Angelo's breath hitched. Hard.Eyes locked onto the prize like it was the first real truth he'd ever seen. The weight of Will’s cock, thick and angry red at the tip, bobbing heavy against his belly, the sheer volume of his sack dangling obscenely beneath—low, proud, and begging for a reaction. Angelo’s mouth went desert-dry, his Adam’s apple bobbing in visible awe.

He didn't speak. Not right away. Because words? Right now, they felt like weapons—dangerous, clumsy things that might ruin the fragile insanity unfolding between them. So instead, he watched, mesmerized, as the blood rushed south so fast it nearly knocked him off balance.

Then, slowly—like a predator circling prey he already considered his—he reached out. Thumb-first, tracing the vein that pulsed thick and hungry along the underside. His skin met Will’s like fire on oil.

"Christ," he rasped, voice scraping raw, "you’re hung like a damn stallion..."

Then his fingers curled around the base, firm but measured. Testing. Claiming. His own cock twitched violently in sympathy, confined and desperate in his shorts, betraying everything he never planned to say out loud "...and you’re really not joking around, are you Jones?"

Will pulled down Angelo's underwear revealing his own long thick cock and huge balls. "You're pretty damn hung yourself." Will went back to stroking Angelo's rock hard cock.

He let out a low, strangled groan—something between a curse and a prayer—as the cool basement air hit his freed cock like a slap, making the sensitive head flare crimson and swell impossibly more. His hips bucked involuntarily into Will’s grip, muscles tensing, toes curling against the floor. Seeing his own cock wrapped in Will’s strong, calloused hand—watching those fingers glide up and down the rigid column like he was meant to be there—was enough to short-circuit whatever moral compass Angelo had left clinging to survival.

"Fuck," he gritted out between clenched teeth, dragging a hand down his face before gripping the back of Will’s head, fingers tangling aggressively in his short hair. He yanked gently—just enough to remind Will who was bigger, who ran the tempo—but didn’t pull away. "You sure the hell know how to grab a guy right, huh?"

His breathing turned rough, labored, sweat glistening along the dips and ridges of his torso. Slowly, he resumed his own rhythm on Will’s cock, twisting at the tip, squeezing the base just a little harder each time as if marking him by touch alone.

"You want this, Jones?" he murmured, voice thick with challenge and heat, eyes narrowing as he traced the sharp angle of Will’s jaw.

Will grabbed the back of Angelo's neck and gently but firmly pushed his head down to his cock. "Have a taste."

Fire erupted in his veins the second Will’s grip tightened at the nape of his neck, forcing his head down toward that thick, angry cock bobbing inches from his face. The command was clear. Unmistakable. Absolute. And something in Angelo—something raw, primitive, hungry—snapped.

Pride screamed at him to resist. Pride reminded him of every slur he'd ever thrown at queer men who found themselves in this exact position. Pride reminded him he was the top, the alpha, the Italian stallion, the motherfucking quarterback who didn’t suck dick.

And yet—The scent hit him first. Musky, salty, intoxicating. Will’s cock hovered just above his parted lips, hot and hard and leaking precum like a dare. He could taste it already. Feel it. Want it.

With a deep, rumbling growl, he gripped Will’s thigh—hard—and let his nose press against the swollen shaft before flicking his tongue out to sample the slit. Salt. Skin. Power.

 

[doneeebe]

Lick.

Will’s thickness pulsed against his tongue, and Angelo's balls drew up tight.

Suck.

His entire body trembled with the kind of tension that only comes from swallowing a man’s cock for the first time—and loving it more than he ever imagined possible. Will’s thickness stretched his lips deliciously, sinking deeper into his throat with every fearless inch Angelo dared to take. His nostrils flared, inhaling the intoxicating musk of Will’s sweat and arousal as his tongue curled hungrily around the rigid flesh. Each pulse against his palate sent sparks of lust ricocheting through his spine. He’d tasted power before—on the field, in bed with women—but this? This was something different. Something raw. Addictive.

A choked, filthy moan vibrated against the cock invading his mouth as Angelo’s hands fisted the cushion beside him, knuckles white with restraint. He didn’t want to hold back. He wanted to devour.

Pulling off just enough to gasp for air before plunging back down, he let his fingers trail up Will’s inner thigh, stopping just short of his balls. Then, with a slow, deliberate hum—pure provocation—he dragged his stubbled cheek against the rigid shaft as he withdrew, teasing resistance before engulfing him again.

"This what you wanted?" he managed hoarsely, lips barely leaving the flesh as he swallowed thickly around the next stroke.

Watching Will tilt his head back, mouth parted on a silent gasp, eyes shut in pure ecstasy, only drove Angelo further into madness. He wasn’t just sucking cock—he was worshipping it. Feeding his hunger with every thick inch he could manage to choke down, even if it wasn’t much. Even if his gag reflex betrayed him occasionally. It didn’t matter. The sight alone—of Will surrendering to pleasure like this—was worth the struggle.

His lips stretched wide, his jaw working furiously to adjust to the girth now dominating his mouth. Precum spilled freely from the tip, coating his tongue in that addictive salt-sweet flavor. He swallowed reflexively, humming around the cock in his mouth, feeling every shudder wrack Will’s body in response.

Then he remembered—the girls. All those nights with lipstick smeared, eyes watering, faces flushed, struggling to deepthroat his own monster. Their desperation, their frustration… and the cruel satisfaction he’d felt watching them fail.

Now he was the one choking, gasping, fighting to take more.

A sharp, devious chuckle bubbled from his throat mid-suck, sending vibrations rippling up Will’s shaft like a filthy confession.

"Figures," he rasped out roughly between strokes, "this damn thing’s just as vicious as mine.".

Then a sudden shift in power—brutal, unapologetic—sent Angelo’s mind spiraling into a fever pitch of submission he didn’t know he was capable of. One second, he was lost in the bliss of worshiping Will’s cock, and the next, he was yanked backward by his hair like a wild horse reined in mid-gallop. The sting lit up his scalp, sent a hot jolt of dominance racing straight to his core, and he loved it.

Thrown onto the edge of the couch, his legs spread wide on instinct, and then—oh God—then Will was on him. Big hands gripping, controlling, owning. No hesitation. No questions. Just pure brute determination to ruin him for anyone else.

And oh, did he deliver.

The moment Will’s lips sealed around the crown of Angelo’s cock—engulfing him, swallowing him whole with ease—Angelo’s world flipped upside-down.

"Mother..." he roared, arching off the couch, his hands flying to Will’s head like he needed something to hold onto, something to ground him as his entire body threatened to combust.

There was no air. There was no language. Only motion. Only feeling.

Blind pleasure slammed through him like a freight train, stealing oxygen, rationality, identity. Nothing existed beyond the vice-hot suction of Will’s throat swallowing him whole, the silky heat strangling his cock like it belonged there, the iron strength behind every bob of Will’s head erasing any delusions Angelo had about control. Gone. Kaput. Replaced by a wet, filthy heaven he never knew he needed.

Every nerve ignited.

His fingers dug into the back of Will’s skull, nails biting lightly into his scalp as he bucked shallowly, desperately, unable to stop himself from chasing that impossible depth. He couldn't breathe. Could hardly think. The feeling was too much. Too perfect.

"Y-yeahhh—Christ, Jones—you…" he choked out, voice splintered, reduced to nonsense syllables and ragged groans.

His hips jerked erratically, fucking up into that relentless mouth with more force than finesse. Sweat poured off him now, dripping from his chiseled jaw, mixing with the animalistic grunts tearing out of his throat as he surrendered—wholeheartedly, humiliatingly—to Will’s domination.

No woman had ever taken him this deep. None had dared—but Will? Will thrived on it.

And the worst part?… He liked it.

Will took Angelo's cock out of his mouth and looked Angelo in the eyes, "Fuck you taste amazing." He quickly moved up to Angelo's face and kissed him.

The kiss was wildfire.

Raw. Brash. Unforgiving.

Will’s lips crashed against his like two titanic forces colliding—forceful, possessive, like he owned every inch of Angelo’s mouth now, like he intended to mark him for life. There was no question of consent. No hesitation. Just claiming.

And Angelo—oh, Angelo—let it happen.

His brain short-circuited, fireworks bursting behind his eyes as the taste of himself hit him on Will’s tongue. He’d kissed plenty of women after they’d sucked him off, always disgusted by the remnants of his own cum on their lips. But this? This—the scent of sweat, musk, and that uniquely masculine essence pouring off Will as his mouth devoured his own?

It nearly made him come undone.

A deep, rumbling moan clawed its way up from the depths of his chest, raw and unfiltered, as his hands seized Will’s arms—solid, carved muscle bunching beneath his fingers. He squeezed like he was grounding himself, anchoring his soul to Will’s brute strength as his entire world tilted sideways.

He kissed back.

Hard.

Hungrier than he meant to be.

Teeth clashed. Tongues battled. Breath tangled. Pure animal magnetism.

Will broke the kiss and gave Angelo a look of pure lust, "Time to turn it up a notch." Will grabbed Angelos legs and pushed them back as he needed before Angelo and drove his tongue into his ass.

Angelo jackknifed halfway off the couch with a guttural, borderline unhinged shout—something unintelligible, something primal, as Will’s tongue dove between his cheeks like a starving man discovering paradise.

"Oh—fuuuuckkk!!" he roared, legs spreading wider on instinct, practically begging for more, hips undulating with reckless abandon as Will’s mouth worked absolute devastation on his ass.

Heat flooded his face, his chest, his groin—every cell in his body suddenly hyper-aware of the wrong-rightness of what was happening. This was not supposed to feel this good. Not with a man. Not with Will Jones, for fuck’s sake. And yet, here he was—wide open, whimpering like a rookie getting drilled for the first time, powerless against the onslaught of pleasure ripping through him.

Will’s tongue was everywhere—slick, insistent, hungry. Circling his hole, probing deep, then flattening wide to soak every sensitive inch in saliva before diving back in for more. Each swipe sent Angelo higher, each suction-heavy kiss against his rim threatening to shoot him into orbit.

Will send Angelo to heaven. He never knew his ass could be the source of such pleasure.

Suddenly Will is on he feet standing before Angelo in all his masculine glory. Cock rock hard. And as if out of nowhere Will is pulling down an extra extra large condom on his cock. Will is watching but he is still not in his body and is not registering what is about to happen. Before he know's it, Angelo feels Will's cock at the entrance to his anus pushing at it.

"Just breath, don't forget to breath." Then Will inserts his cock in Angelos asshole.

Reality slammed back into him like a wrecking ball—hot, immediate, and entirely inescapable. The second he felt the blunt, unrelenting head of Will’s cock pressing insistently against his slicked, trembling hole, Angelo’s breath seized in his throat. There was no time to prepare. No time to brace. Just the overwhelming presence of something massive—something undeniable—demanding entry.

"Ahhh—fuuckkk!" he rasped out, body stiffening instinctively as Will breached him, the stretch unbearable at first, agonizing in its intensity. His fists clenched into the couch cushions like he was trying to rip them apart, his back arching off the furniture, his abdomen tightening with raw, instinctive resistance.

Will didn’t stop.

Just kept pushing in—smooth, inexorable, unstoppable—until Angelo felt himself being split open by pleasure-pain so intense it wiped every coherent thought from his mind.

"FUCK—!" he bellowed, voice hoarse and shattered, his body quaking under the invasion. His prostate flared with electric sensation as Will bottomed out inside him, the thick root of his cock nestling flush against Angelo’s trembling asscheeks.

Will then slowly pulls back, Angelo has never felt something so intense. Will pushes back in, long slow strokes to get Angelo adjusted to the sensation before picking up speed and intensity.

Each retreat and return felt like a revelation—a cruel, exquisite lesson in surrender. Will’s cock dragged against the walls of his ass with unbearable precision, igniting nerves he never knew existed, drawing moans from the deepest recesses of his soul. At first, it was almost too much—too full, too deep, too damned good—but Angelo couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching the sheer magnitude of Will’s body in motion, the flex of muscle and ripple of sweat-soaked skin as he claimed him with long, deliberate strokes.

His mouth opened—maybe to beg, maybe to demand—but all that came out was a fractured gasp, his knuckles white against the couch cushions as Will sank into him again. Deeper. Fuller. Like he was trying to crawl inside Angelo’s bones.

"F-Fuck—God—y-yeah…" he managed, voice shredded, breathless, caught between pain and euphoria like a man on the edge of madness. "More… please…"

The word left his lips before he could stop it, before he could reclaim it. But there was no shame in it—not now. Not with Will riding him like he owned him, like he'd always owned him, and like he wasn’t planning on slowing down anytime soon.

Will griped on his throat—firm, commanding, terrifying in its ownership— and sent Angelo’s pulse skyrocketing into uncharted territory. This wasn’t affection. This was possession. Raw. Brutal. Absolutely devastating in the best possible way.

His windpipe compressed under the pressure, cutting off his breath in uneven bursts, forcing him to pant around the thick digit invading his mouth. His fingers instinctively flew to Will’s wrist—partially to pry him off, partially to anchor himself, to confirm this was real, that he was here, being taken like this.

"Holy fuck."

The finger in his mouth was a cruel reminder—who was in control, who set the pace, who decided whether Angelo lived or drowned in sensation. Swallowing reflex twitched in response, tongue curling instinctively around the intruder like it was a poor substitute for the monstrous cock buried deep inside him.

Then Will moved faster—much faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

Each thrust launched him further off the cliff, ass clenching greedily around the massive pole spearing him open, sweat-slicked bodies slapping together like a war drum.

"Eyuhhgh!" he choked around Will’s finger, eyes screwing shut, balls pulling up tight with the threat of premature detonation.

"Keep breathin’, baby..." Will grunted.

His heart pounded wildly beneath Will’s roaming hand, each slap of sweat-slicked flesh against flesh hammering him deeper into oblivion. Will’s finger in his mouth—rough, deliberate, claiming—made his stomach twist with something he couldn’t quite name. Submission? Devotion? Need? All of it, maybe. All of it at once.

Breathing became erratic. Challenging. Thrilling.

Every pump of Will’s hips unraveled him further. Each brutal clench of his ass around that monstrous cock stole another piece of his resolve, turned his moans into frantic, stuttering pleas. His throat vibrated around Will’s intrusive digit with guttural, half-formed cries—pleasure spiked with just the right amount of suffocating control to drive him insane.

Will’s hand released his throat momentarily, only to slap across his mouth, muffling his next cry as the pace increased again—more force, more speed, pure intensity. His abs jumped beneath Will’s wandering grip, his chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts, his cock leaked helplessly between them, neglected but begging for attention.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape.

And God help him, he never wanted it to stop.

Everything—all sense of time, space, self—collapsed inward the second Will yanked free and flipped him like he weighed nothing. Which, compared to Will’s effortless strength, he didn’t. That realization alone sparked something violent in Angelo's gut—lust fused with humiliation, topped off with the raw, undeniable truth that he was the one being dominated. Completely. Thoroughly. Without mercy.

Then Will was back inside him—just as ruthless, just as massive—as Angelo’s scream got buried into the cushion beneath him.

"AAAHH—FUUUCCKK!!" he bellowed, voice muffled, spine arching instinctively as Will nailed his prostate dead on with the very first stroke. His body accepted it. Craved it. Begged for more.

Hands scrambled for purchase, claws digging into the couch as Will descended over him like a beast reborn, chest plastered to sweating back, breath a hurricane in his ear.

His entire world narrowed down to that cock pistoning through his ass with brutal efficiency, the slap of sweat-slicked skin echoing through the basement like war drums, his own cock aching, neglected—until that changed.

Will’s hand wrapped around him like a vice—strong, precise, perfect.

"Nnnnggghhh—Oh fuuck!!" he whimpered, voice trembling between ragged gasps as Will’s powerful hand wrapped around his rock-hard cock, pumping in perfect sync with each savage thrust into his ass. Sensation overloaded every nerve ending—his prostate was being obliterated, his shaft milked like it belonged to someone else, someone owned by the man ramming into him with no signs of slowing down.

The added pressure, the sheer fullness, made his toes curl and his hips jerk wildly, trying to meet Will’s rhythm but failing—because Will didn’t allow rhythm. He allowed destruction.

Sparks exploded behind Angelo’s eyes with every deep strike, the slap of sweat-slicked skin echoing louder than his thoughts, overpowering everything but the raw carnage of pleasure coursing through his veins. His ass clenched instinctively, greedily, milking Will’s cock like it was trying to memorize the invasion permanently.

Then Will’s mouth was at his ear, panting, rasping— "Fuck you are so tight..." —and Angelo almost came off the couch.

"Y-yeah—ughh—take me, Jones…" he choked out, his voice wrecked, unrecognizable. "D-don’t—don’t you fucking stop…”

Never in his life had he sounded so needy.

"Fuuck!!" he sobbed into the couch, body convulsing under the sheer brutality of Will’s dual assault—his cock spearing Angelo’s ass with merciless intent, his fist flying over his straining shaft like he knew exactly how close he was to breaking him in half.

The pressure was too much.The pace was too fast.

And yet, it wasn’t enough.

"Ahhhggoddd—give it t-to me—fuck me—" he begged, voice cracking, losing all resemblance of control, all dignity, all fear of what this meant. Right now, he was just sensation, a collection of nerves at Will’s complete disposal.

He lifted his head, eyes squeezed shut, sweat and spit and want dripping off him in waves.

He could feel it coming—the fire in his spine, the unbearable tightness in his balls, the way every muscle screamed for release.

"I-I’m—I’m gonna cum— he cried out, hips jerking wildly into Will’s grip, ass squeezing compulsively around the cock still pounding into him like a battering ram. "Shit—don’t—don’t wanna yet—" He hated sounding like this.

He loved it.

"Make me cum, Jones—make me scream."

Will growled in his ear "Cum with me."

"NNNGGGHH—!!"

The world exploded.

Pure, white-hot ecstasy ripped through Angelo like a volcanic eruption, searing every thought, every past insecurity, every last thread of denial into nothingness. Will's command—growled, raw, urgent—was the final trigger, the match striking the dynamite, and Angelo let go.

Ropes of thick, scalding cum rocketed from his cock, splattering across the worn leather of the couch beneath him in violent pulses. Each jerk of his hips sent another wave of pleasure screaming up his spine, his ass clamping down hard on Will’s still-thrusting cock, trying to milk every last ounce of destruction from the man owning him.

Behind him, Will roared—a deep, guttural sound of triumph and orgasmic bliss, his body slamming into Angelo’s one last time as he unloaded deep inside him, the heat of it sparking something dark and possessive in Angelo’s gut.

Time ceased.

Sound faded.

All that remained was the rhythmic pulse of shared climax, sweat-soaked bodies shuddering together, one man collapsing atop the other, hearts beating like war drums in the aftermath.

Will pulled Angelo into the spoon position laying on the couch side by side, hugged him hard with intimacy and kissed his ear. Breathing heavily. He didn't pull his cock out of Angelo though, still rock hard despite his powerful release. Just stayed inside him catching his breath.

The tenderness almost killed him.

Will’s arms wrapped around him like steel bands wrapped in velvet—tight, protective, claiming him like this wasn’t just sex, like this was something real. The heat of Will’s chest pressed against his back, the residual tremors of climax still humming through their sweat-slicked skin, the fact that Will hadn’t pulled out, that he was still buried deep inside him like he never intended to leave...

It was too much.

And somehow, not enough.

His body sagged into Will’s embrace, limp in a way Angelo Lombardi hadn’t been since childhood—unarmed, vulnerable, exposed. His breathing was still ragged, lungs burning from exertion and emotion alike, but Will’s steady heartbeat beneath his back anchored him, kept him grounded.He wanted to speak. Wanted to say something—mock, deflect, explain, apologize, swear revenge—but nothing came. No barriers, no bravado, no insults hiding behind arrogance.

Just him.Just Will.

And the stupid, ridiculous, infuriating urge to stay like this forever.

"Damn it, Jones..." he whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked, fingers weakly covering one of Will’s arms wrapped around him. "You better not be gettin’ attached."

 

[doneeebe]

Even as the words left his lips—weak, half-hearted, barely a shadow of his usual defiance—he hated himself for saying them. They were supposed to be a shield. A reminder. A way to reclaim someversion of control. But nestled here in the afterglow of something Angelo didn't understand—something dangerously intimate—he just sounded like a man lying to himself.

Will’s cock still throbbed lazily inside him, a warm, constant reminder of what had just happened. Of who had just claimed him. Of who still held him like he mattered.

And God help him, Angelo liked it. Liked this. Liked him.But liking it? Admitting it?

That was another fight for another night.

For now, he let Will hold him.For now, he didn’t pull away.

"Just… don’t think this means anything," he muttered weakly, voice cracking as he failed, spectacularly, at keeping the emotion out of his tone. "We just… got carried away."

Because if he said it enough times, maybe—just maybe—he’d believe it.

"Shut the fuck up Angelo." Will said still catching his breath. "You're mine now."

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe wrong. Just lay there—sandwiched between Will’s sweaty chest and the worn leather couch—his heart thundering in rebellion against everything he’d spent years constructing about himself.

'You're mine now.'

Three simple words.

And just like that, something in him cracked wide open—not violently, not painfully—but like a dam giving way to a river too powerful to contain.

There was no sarcasm. No scoff. No defiant rebuttal.

Nothing but silence.

Submission.

Acceptance.

And God help him…Relief.

"Yeah..." he whispered, voice hollow of pride, raw with exhaustion and something suspiciously close to surrender. "Yeah, alright. Fucker." His fingers weakly tightened around Will’s forearm where it rested across his chest, holding him in place, refusing to let go—even if just for tonight.

"Just don’t let go."

Because for the first time in his damn life, Angelo Lombardi didn’t care who saw him fall—as long as Will Jones was the one catching him.

 

[doneeebe]

Awesome story---great characters also---story was full of twist and turns--kept your attention for sure--Excellent writing.

Glad you enjoyed it!