Brawlers

Tyler Michael's card lays it out plain: 'Fuck your best friend.' He texts his good pal, Mustang Exclusive Cal 'Speedy' Reynolds, luring him over with the promise of the game on TV. They settle in, eyes glued to the screen, where burly players clash in a frenzy of man-on-man action. The hits land hard. The sweat glistens. Before long, the air thickens with unspoken heat, their pulses racing in sync. Tyler shifts closer, his hand brushing Speedy's thigh—a spark that ignites the powder keg. Clothes hit the floor in a tangle. They grapple like the athletes they've just watched, rough hands pinning shoulders, mouths crashing in hungry demand. Speedy growls low, flipping Tyler onto the couch, thrusting deep with a rhythm that's all fire and no mercy. Sweat-slicked skin slaps together. Grunts echo louder than the crowd on screen. They chase release in a blur of muscle and need, buddies no more, but lovers locked in primal fury.