Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by
request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self
contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for
when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading
for a long time.
Ben and James had been together for
what seemed like forever. Grade school? High school? No one could remember really. They where the kind of couple people either
admired or side-eyed with disbelief, two strong, stubborn bulls who
somehow made it work. They’d lived through every argument, every
reconciliation, every scraped knee from camping trips and every
bruised ego after friendly competition. And through it all, they’d
stuck like epoxy: rough around the edges, but solid in the core. They weren’t soft-spoken romantics.
No, they were man’s men. They didn’t write poems, they wrote each
other gym routines. Their idea of a getaway was a cabin with no
signal and heavy logs to split. Their bodies reflected that too,
solid muscle, earned not for show, but forged through sweat, blood,
and stubbornness. And they loved every inch of each other’s effort. One of their favorite rituals, and time spent together, was their
shared home gym in the basement. Simple setup: some free weights, a
battered punching bag, a wall mirror that had survived two floods,
and the centerpiece, a thick wooden ceiling beam, scarred from years
of use and perfect for pull-ups, stretches, or in Ben’s case today…
push-ups. The old-school kind. Hanging from the beam, back arched,
core tight, going up and down with perfect form as sweat rolled down
his torso. James, across the room, was mid-arm
set, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. His biceps burned, but it was
nothing compared to the heat pooling in his gut from watching Ben
move. The rhythmic motion of those lats and abs. The raw power in
every controlled dip. The sheer effort, the pride… and the goddamn
tease. Ben looked over, lips curled slightly,
a smug glint in his eyes. He knew James was watching. He wanted him
to.
That was half the fun.
James put down his dumbbells with a
thud and grabbed his towel, but didn’t wipe off. He stood there for
a second, arms crossed, his chest still heaving slightly. His gaze
dropped again to those abs, flexing with each breath. His fists
clenched. Part of him wanted to throw a jab right into that perfect
wall of muscle, test its strength, feel it resist. The other part of
him? The other part wanted to get on his
knees and kiss each tight ridge of it until Ben dropped down and
pinned him to the floor.
But this was still workout
time. Fun could come later.
Ben kept up the rhythm, push-up, hold, release, his fingers wrapped in a white-knuckled grip around the low beam overhead. His body hung in controlled suspension, every muscle drawn tight like cable wire. His core flexed with each motion, abs bunching into clean, brutal lines that caught the soft basement light and turned it molten across his skin. Each dip pulled his torso long, lean muscle stretched taut. Each rise brought his abs back into focus, hard, defined, gleaming like armor. His breath came slow and even, controlled, as if the effort cost him nothing. But sweat still clung to him, running in slow trails down his ribs, gliding over his stomach. James stood a few feet away, towel slack around his neck slowly falling off, hitting the floor, forgotten. His chest rose with each inhale, slower now, deeper. There was heat behind his eyes, curiosity, admiration, hunger. His lips parted slightly, as if caught on the verge of a question or a confession.
But he said nothing.
The silence between them pulsed.
Ben kept going. Push. Hold. Flex.
And James couldn’t look away.
His legs moved without instruction, slow steps closing the space between them like a tide. Deliberate. Hesitant. Wanting. The low ceiling and exposed pipes gave the room a cramped intimacy, the kind that buzzed beneath the skin. He stopped just close enough to feel the heat rolling off Ben’s body. Ben didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance at him. But his jaw was clenched a little tighter. His breath just slightly uneven now. James stood there, eyes locked on the cut of Ben’s stomach. That ridged, glistening core, working like a machine beneath thin, flushed skin. He could smell the sweat. So clean, so sharp, so human. He could hear the faint grunt in Ben’s throat when he dipped just a bit lower than necessary.
Something unspoken snapped taut between them.
And James reached out. His hand moved gently, not timid, but reverent. Fingers brushed the firm rise of Ben’s abs, light at first, then pressing slightly. Feeling the heat, the tension, the living hardness beneath. Ben didn’t flinch. He held his position, suspended, unmoving, but his eyes cut down, catching James with something unreadable in his expression. Neither of them said a word. But both of them knew what this was.
What it could become.
What it was about to become.
