Discover Top Posts Tagged with #double ko

purgetrooperfox

Jun 16, 2025

rack 'em up, big blonde

ao3

rating: M

warnings: N/A

summary:

“It wouldn’t be so different from fighting,” Joe says, as if that makes a single lick of sense.

Terry can only blink at him. “Are you serious? You've gotta be pulling my leg.”

“How come?” And really, Joe is very close. It does kind of feel like gearing up to fight, the way Terry can feel his pulse rabbiting in his chest.

“‘Cause I'm not gay, man,” he says.

Or: a look at Terry's sexual history through a series of vignettes.

@calamity-aims aheem

“It wouldn’t be so different from fighting,” Joe says, as if that makes a single lick of sense.

Terry can only blink at him. “Are you serious? You've gotta be pulling my leg.”

“How come?” And really, Joe is very close. It does kind of feel like gearing up to fight, the way Terry can feel his pulse rabbiting in his chest.

“‘Cause I'm not gay, man,” he says.

“Hey, me neither,” makes even less sense. “You know I'm into girls, and into them, eh?”

“Jesus.”

“Seriously!” Joe insists. “I just thought it could be like… something different. You like a fight, right? A challenge?”

“Sure, but–” fighting isn't fucking, he can't quite spit out. Because Joe gets a hand in his hair, right by his scalp, fisted tight. The pain is grounding, even as he jerks and snarls against it.

“I wouldn't do it like this with a girl,” Joe says, pulling hard enough that Terry has to lean back into it. “But you and me? We can take some pain.”

It's nonsense. It almost makes sense. Terry's blood sings a familiar, adrenaline-laced tune when his back hits the wall. Wires must cross in his head, because what he says is, “Maybe.”

Joe's smirk goes sharp. “It'll be our little secret.” His teeth are sharp too, when they scrape along Terry's jaw. Sharper still when they find his lower lip and bite harder enough that he tastes blood.

Pain bursts bright and immediate. Copper mixed with whatever swill Joe was drinking earlier. Terry feels his pulse in his temples and across his scalp. “Shit. Alright.”

With that assent, he bites back at soft lips and digs his nails hard into Joe's hip. Then somehow it's a kiss. A rougher kiss than he's ever been dealt, like a punch in the mouth, but nevertheless a kiss. Joe grunts into it, wedging himself closer, and Terry surges to meet him.

Like a fight, he said. The buzzing under Terry's skin agrees. That's what life is, bending toward breaking points and pain that reminds him that he's still in this body. Joe's tongue is in his mouth and his fist is in his hair and his thigh is between Terry's, like pinning him to the gym mat.

———

One night, he meets a man who's only in town for the weekend. In an ill-fitting suit, he introduces himself as Jin. Jin agrees to a drink with him, then lets Terry buy him another three rounds. He watches Terry's hands, like he's studying them, then his lips as he takes unreserved shots of cheap liquor.

When Terry joins him for a smoke, he gets pulled into the back alley. Pushed down to his knees. Jin hard and hot in his mouth, rough enough to gag him. An itch scratched.

He chokes on it because he wants to feel it in the morning, when his lips are bruised and his throat aches. Jin is happy to accommodate that, fucking past his gag reflex and refusing to stop until his nose is buried in coarse curls. With involuntary tears in his eyes and a raging hard on trapped in his jeans, Terry swallows around him.

Then he swallows the rush of spend that coats his throat.

“This didn't happen,” Jin tells him as he tucks himself away.

“Obviously.” Pushing to his feet, Terry leans a shoulder against the wall. “You leaving now?”

To his credit, Jin hesitates. “Are you–”

“I'm good,” Terry interrupts. “Don't worry about it.”

“Fine, then.”

Alone, with his arm braced against the wall and his forehead braced against his arm, Terry strokes himself fast and rough until he finds release.

———

Bob kisses him gently. Too gently, like he might respect what they're doing. What this is. His hands frame Terry's jaw to hold him close while he softly, carefully coaxes his lips apart.

He doesn't push, so Terry does. Both palms to Bob's chest, hard enough that he staggers back. “What is it that you want?” he asks.

“You,” Bob says.

It doesn't hurt and it doesn't relieve the tension that cords stronger through Terry's shoulders every day, but it's something new. Bob yields to him. He's soft and pliant beneath him, and he lets Terry take him.

Even when the words are vulgar, his tone is affectionate. It feels to Terry like watching a stranger fuck his friend, some other man who's allowed to slow down and be gentle in bed, and who receives gentleness in turn. That can't be him.

Bob's body is warm.

Terry feels cold, somewhere deep in his chest.

———

After a couple months, it occurs to him that if he did what he's doing with Bob with a woman, he might call it dating. They don't call it that because they call it hanging out, and because it usually consists of grabbing food then gaming or shooting hoops.

And then fucking. Having sex. Whatever. Then spending the night instead of bailing as soon as everyone's sufficiently cleaned up. Then sometimes breakfast, if he doesn't work in the morning.

He's not sure what counts, or what Bob thinks. By the time he really considers his own feelings on it, he's surprised to find that the cold, aching shame he expected isn't part of it. Maybe that should be concerning, but it's also a relief.

Whatever they have, it's been good. Bob's company is always bright, they're competitive in their shared hobbies, and all the rest is a bonus. More than friends with benefits, less than love.

Dating, maybe, by the time Bob takes him dancing instead of hooping.

Dating, probably, by the time he has a spare toothbrush at Bob's apartment and vice versa.

Dating, certainly, by the time some jackass calls them a pair of faggots, or by the time that same jackass gets some friends and hunts them down. He and Bob win that fight, but go home rattled. Southtown's never been particularly kind to either of them, and it's not really surprising that it would throw this cruelty at them. Still, though.

———

He doesn't see Bob as much after that. They still hit the courts sometimes, or run into each other at Pao Pao, but they drift. There's no big breakup. None of their friends ever knew.

Life goes on, that pain as a reminder, and leaves Terry both changed and the same as ever.

———

He meets a stranger at a bar a long way from home. This stranger knows nothing about fighting but a lot about rope, and he's more than happy to demonstrate. Terry goes home with him and learns a few things about himself that he probably would've gotten to eventually, just slower.

The rope is good. It's rough on bare skin, tied too tight, with knots that threaten bruises. He squirms against them to make sure he can't free his wrists, and to feel them hurt.

The guy is fine. The sex is good. He fucks Terry hard and leaves his skin a mess of scratches and bite marks. His dick is big enough that it leaves a dull ache inside him that will last through at least the next day. When he finishes, he pulls out and paints Terry's back with it.

The next morning, back in his own room, Terry finds a wad of cash and a scrap of paper with an unfamiliar phone number scrawled on it. They're tucked in the pocket of his jacket. He leaves them, showers, and still feels dirty.

Pride screams that he should return the money – he's not that – but a new ache has joined the rest. Hunger gnaws at him, loud and angry for having been ignored, and he knows his wallet's light. Been a while since he found a stable job. So he pockets the cash and he doesn't think about it.

———

What he has with Mary is good, but when she decides to sit out a tournament, he goes ahead without her.

He meets Ken Masters, who reads as three existential crises in designer clothes. Still, the guy can fight. He can fight really damn well.

After the tournament, when everyone piles into the nearest bar, he seeks Terry out. The liquor Ken buys him is probably more expensive than Terry's apartment. Unsurprisingly, he talks a lot. About cars and Los Angeles, but also about training and fighting and his record against Ryu. And his master, or his father, or some old man he respects. And his own reputation back home.

The lot of it turns into white noise after a while, but Terry toughs it out. Ken keeps looking at his hands, so maybe there'll be some payout for his resilience.

Eventually, the offer comes, “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

Oddly, Ken brings him to a gym. It's closed, but he has a key, because of course he does.

“You looking to spar or something?” Terry asks around a laugh. He looks around for someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and reveal the joke.

But Ken says, “Yeah, why not? I saw you in the tournament, you're good. Winner takes all.”

The heat in his voice suggests that he means it, so sure.

They spar, and Terry even wins. Through blood on his teeth, he grins down at Ken Masters, flat on his back on the mat. Turns out he didn't mean winner takes all, but he lets Terry loom over him and work him to hardness with a spit-slick hand. He's so much quieter in defeat, reduced to hissed curses and muttering under his breath. Meaningless challenges, now. Not enough venom to get under his skin.

Bracing his free arm and shifting his balance, Terry manages to get his own cock out and take them both in hand. It's too dry, but Ken's length burns against him and he's content to chase it, fucking the snug loop of his fingers. Ken even relaxes enough to counter his rhythm and they get to the edge together.

When Ken cums across his ugly, expensive shirt and Terry's knuckles, he calls him Ryu. That's fine. Terry drops his flagging cock and pumps himself to completion, adding to the stains on Ken's clothes. That is satisfying as hell.

“About that,” Ken says afterward, while he scrubs at the mess on his shirt in the sink. “It's not what it sounds like.”

Terry splashes the back of his neck with cool water and straightens, retying his hair. “I don't really care, it's fine.”

“Right. Good.” A beat. Terry glances sidelong at him and is ignored. “Ryu and I aren't close like that.”

“Alright.” On the wall, the clock reads a quarter to one. Later than he'd meant to stay out, but he's made do with worse.

“I've got a girl back home, anyway. This is just…”

“Sure.”

“Letting off steam. You know. It's almost like a fight– it was a fight, just with a more fun ending.”

Terry hopes he never sounded like that, if he ever tried to explain this drive to anyone outside of it. Unfortunately, he gets what Ken's saying. Even more unfortunately, he doesn't have a shred of insight to offer. “It's really fine, man. Shouldn't do your girl like that, but I'm not here to judge you.”

Hypocrisy tastes like ash on his tongue.

———

He thinks Mary can smell the deviancy on him. They don't talk about it, but she's always been sharp and he's never been subtle. It's all in vague questions and sidelong looks. Nevermind that he hasn't fooled around on her since that night with Ken, the guilt of it eats at him.

She must sense it, one way or another.

They split as friends and even that feels miraculous, because he never really deserved her.

———

Relationships come, fail to stick, and go. He has more important things on his plate, between putting food on the table for Rock, training and planning a route to vengeance for his father, and competing to test himself against the best in the world.

“You're not getting lonely, are you?” Andy asks him one morning over coffee, out of the blue.

“Lonely? Me? Course not,” Terry says. He even means it. “In case you forgot, I live with a teenager. Never a dull moment.”

With a tilted nod, Andy cedes that point. “I wasn't sure at first, but it seems like it's been good for you to have someone to take care of. You were never much good at taking care of yourself.”

“I'm still here, aren't I?”

“I guess.” He swirls dregs around the bottom of his mug, avoiding eye contact. “I was just thinking, it's been a while since you brought a girl around.”

While not unexpected, the subject isn't one he's looking to talk about. “Can't a guy have a dry spell in peace? Jeez, Andy.”

What he won't be telling his brother is that it's easier for him to keep things casual. By the time he'd be bringing a girl around, or a guy with a cover story, it's about time to cut ties. He's content like that.

He is.

———

Kevin sets their dynamic off to a strong start by accusing Terry of murder. They get the facts sorted eventually, but it's not the kind of thing a guy just forgets about.

Unfortunately, Kevin is broad and strong and rough around the edges. His hand fits neatly around Terry's neck when he pins him on his back. It must be lack of blood to the brain that drives Terry's hips up so fervently to grind against him, but he keeps doing it until Kevin gets impatient and undresses them just enough to fuck him properly.

And there's that blurry line between a good fight and a good fuck. Kevin makes no effort toward prep and goes in too dry to feel good, but Terry arches on him like he touched a live wire. It hurts like life hurts. Hard, hot, rough, fast. More of everything than he's felt in a while.

Terry torques his hips and flips them to straddle Kevin's body. Like this, he can get a better angle. Kevin fucks up into him with more force than he can match, but it finally finds the right nerves. Pain twists into pleasure and Terry escalates it when he gets a hand on himself. He needed this, and he needed it from someone like this bastard cop. Someone doing this for himself, just bringing Terry along for the ride.

After, while he smokes at the ceiling, Kevin talks. About his job, about the injustice in Southtown, about bad things happening to good people. All the right words with no follow through, nothing about any meaningful difference he's made.

Terry grits his teeth until he finishes a cigarette, then peels himself off the bed. “I need to get going. Good luck with your manhunt, sounds like the guy's slippery.”

He's practiced about making a quick escape from pillow talk like that and leaves before Kevin assembles a description of his ever-evasive perp. All in all, worth the detour for the satisfaction in his bones and the ache between his thighs.

On the way out, he catches a glimpse of a polaroid hung on the fridge. Then he double takes. Because that sure is Mary posted beside Kevin at a cookout or something, laughing brightly. There's a group around them, but no one else Terry recognizes. Across the bottom, messy handwriting declares: “Fourth of July, 1995”.

“Shit,” Kevin blurts when he rounds the corner. “I thought you were gone, you startled me.”

“Sorry,” Terry says, startled himself. “I'm going, just saw the picture. Gotta appreciate a grill master.”

Stepping up, Kevin looks for himself and smiles, softening his entire face. “That was a good party. I've been so busy lately, I haven't gotten around to seeing family much.”

See, Terry thinks, it's not so hard to dangle bait and get someone to answer an unspoken question. “I think just about everyone's in that same boat, honestly. Tough to find time.”

“Yeah.” Kevin sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “Parents are one thing, you know, but extended family? Mary's always on my ass about calling more and there just aren't enough hours in the day. That's her – Mary, I mean.”

Yeah. That's her. At least there's no way Kevin ever tells anyone about this, much less his own family.

Shame curls behind Terry's sternum and purrs like an old friend.

———

There are more new entrants to World Warrior than familiar faces every year, and Terry has to consider that he might be getting too old for this shit. He loves the thrill of competition, nothing beats the blood pumping-heart racing-nerves singing rush of barely winning a fight, but the writing might be on the wall. One year, working through a busted knee, he goes out early against some young blood.

More power to him, Terry thinks. Then the guy wins the whole tournament and he feels less sorry for himself. It was a good time in its own right to watch him mop the floor with an uncharacteristically raggedy-ass Ken Masters.

Going to the afterparty doesn't make him feel any younger, but some traditions die hard. Mister World Warrior himself even waves him down.

“Hey, I don't think we've met,” he says with a wide smile and an extended hand. “I'm Luke.”

“Don't tell me our fight had that little effect on you,” Terry counters. Joking. Mostly.

“No, no, of course not,” is not a relief because he was joking. Totally. “I meant before that.”

His hand is still out, so Terry shakes it. “If you say so. Alright, Luke, I’m Terry. I've been to a few of these things, just not really up to form this year.”

Luke beams. His teeth are very white. “I don't doubt it, you put me through my paces.”

And so on and so forth, through enough alcohol that he feels warm but not drunk. Luke matches his pace and seems to be in no hurry to get back to his friends. Or, presumably his friends. Terry recognizes a guy with a sharp undercut and a long braid and a girl sporting two of her own from the tournament. The guy keeps shooting him the stink eye.

But Luke either doesn't know or doesn't care, happy to share his story – military, then MMA, now this – and listen to Terry's. For his contagious enthusiasm and pretty smile, he even gets a less abridged version than Terry tends to hand out at these events. More about Southtown and how he got here in the first place, sordid as that tale may be.

Luke says all the right things. Then he says, “I'd pay good money to see you fight healthy, I bet that's a sight.”

Which is forward. Slightly slurred, but forward. “Yeah? I'm sure a sight could be arranged for you, if you're interested.”

A blush seeps across his face, a splash of warm color painting his nose and cheeks. “How long are you in town?” Luke asks.

“I fly out tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Their knees bump when Luke adjusts in his chair.

“Bright and early.” Terry nudges into the contact to be sure it won't retreat and smirks when it doesn't. “Might be time to blow this joint. I've got a motel room though, if that's the sort of sight you like.”

The blush darkens, but Luke's voice is steady when he accepts.

That motel room is nothing to write home about, but Luke's knees make the carpet look better. He makes up for inexperience with the same focused enthusiasm he's shown all night. Terry's never minded the threat of teeth, within reason, and Luke's mouth is warm and wet around him.

He asked for guidance, so Terry provides it gladly. A hand in his hair and murmured direction are received well. Luke proves to be a quick study, but he's obviously into instruction – visibly straining the crotch of his pants. He doesn't touch himself though. He hasn't been told to touch himself.

It's hotter than it has any right to be. A power trip he's distantly surprised he enjoys. Luke lets him rock between his lips and only has to back off to cough a couple times, all while he shifts and adjusts himself without letting his fingers linger.

Terry caves when he feels heat pool in his gut. “Luke,” he starts, then pauses to tip his head back against the wall when Luke offers a roll of his tongue. After a long breath, he can look back down. “Get your cock out, I want to see you.”

He feels more than hears the rumble of a groan. Below the view of clever lips wrapped around his shaft, Luke's cock stands at attention. Red and swollen and drooling.

“Good,” Terry manages. His hips stutter. “Touch yourself for me. I can tell you're close already, got close just from this– but I want you to finish with me.”

The curl of Luke's hand around his cock makes it jump and Terry's mouth water. He swallows.

Swearing roughly, he pulls Luke off him by his hair and takes himself in hand. “Mouth open.”

God help him, Luke obeys, breathing hard. His brows knit as his hand speeds up.

Terry watches and wants and says, “Now. Fucking hell– cum for me now, baby.”

Because he can't hold back the tide of his own orgasm anymore, painting stripes over the flush of Luke's face, and his lips, and his tongue. With a punched out groan, Luke follows suit and sits back on his haunches, freed from Terry's grip on his hair. He looks completely debauched. A mess from his knees up.

Until he stills entirely, Terry watches the rise and fall of his chest. Bare, broad, and tattooed under his dogtags. Impressive, still. Luke slowly collects himself and blinks up at him. “Damn,” he says.

Terry can only offer a breathy laugh. “I know you said you want to see the sights, but I think the real view is of you.”

It gets him a renewed blush that he kind of wants to taste for himself. Instead, he helps Luke get cleaned up and loans him an unstained shirt. Satisfaction at seeing him wear it, tight around his waist but loose around his shoulders, hums under Terry's skin.

Seeing him off is almost a shame, and he seems to agree. In the doorway, he stops. “If you're ever back in town, look me up? We'll see about getting a rematch.”

“I'll do that,” Terry promises. Unlikely to come true, but who knows. Maybe he'll make a point to come back outside of tournament season.

———

“You know, you don't have to stay in and babysit me anymore,” Rock informs him without looking away from the game he's playing. “I can take care of myself.”

“Does this feel like I'm babysitting you?” Terry asks, because that's the most surprising sentiment there. He only just sat down with their pizza order.

“Well. No, but in general. Ugh.” On screen, his character falls over in dramatic fashion. “Like, if you wanted to go out.”

Cutting a glance at him, Terry fails to draw Rock's gaze. “I go out plenty. I was out earlier.”

“Sure, at Pao Pao. Was Mary there?”

“Not today? Why?

“Just wondering. You see her much anymore?”

Terry resists the urge to sigh and grabs a slice of pizza. Rock can help himself whenever. “Sometimes. Why?”

“Well, do you see another girl now?” Impressively, Rock still sounds like his focus is on his game instead of this conversation.

“I don't have a girlfriend, Rock. That what you're asking?”

A noncommittal noise and a shrug. “But do you want to have one?”

He delays answering that by inhaling his food and watching Rock get digitally exploded into blood and gore. “That was gross,” he says with a nod at the screen, because it was. Hard to look away from, but gross.

“Terry.”

“I'm not looking for a girlfriend, no. Have you been talking to Andy?”

“No? What about a boyfriend?”

Terry chokes on nothing but air and spit. “What?”

“Because that would be okay too,” Rock raises his voice along with his shoulders. Defensive.

“I'm not gay,” Terry says, albeit with less surety and fewer teeth than the assertion had twenty years ago.

“Okay!” Rock blurts. Finally, he lobs his controller at a pillow and faces Terry. “That's cool! But it would be cool if you were, is all I'm saying. Either way is cool, right?”

This has all spiraled in a strange direction. It occurs to him abruptly that he's supposed to be setting some semblance of an example for Rock, but fuck. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Awesome. Well said.

Rock squints at him. “My buddy dates guys and girls, and that's cool, right?”

“Yeah, Rock,” Terry says with as much sincerity as he can inject into his voice. “That's cool, as long as your buddy's careful.”

Once, twice, Rock nods sharply. “So you don't have to be gay to go on a date with a guy, ‘cause you can date girls too.”

“You're right, that's my bad.” Carefully, Terry collects his composure. It's easier once he starts to suspect that this isn't actually about him.

“Okay. I just wanted to talk about it. With you.” Hugging his knees to his chest, Rock works his jaw to spit out, “Even if you're not into guys, to make sure you're cool with other people being like that.”

Jesus Shit. “I'm cool with it, I promise.” He takes a breath and keeps it smooth. “I'd just worry, because some people are assholes and I'd hate to see someone I care about have to deal with that.”

“Yeah.” Then all at once, in a rush, “I think I might go on a date with that buddy.”

“I think that's great, kid. If you're safe and happy, that's all that matters.” Maybe not the heartfelt conversation they're supposed to have, but it's true. And he'd lie if it wasn't.

No ward of his will grow up carrying shame around like he did. Not for this.

#street fighter #sf #king of fighters #kof #fatal fury #terry bogard #others. but mostly him #bob wilson #ken masters #luke sullivan #nsft #if they're ooc i apologize i barely go here #leo.writes #idk where this came from either man #i think he's a teen in the first one and circa sf6/cotw in the last one #obligatory internalized homophobia warning #double ko #i had to use no less than two ship tags that don't exist on ao3 for this.........#what else was rattling around in my brain #rock is playing mk #terry fucking women isn't relevant for this fic but it did happen offscreen. bicon happy pride