Shorts: Couples Workout

 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.  

 

Then, THUD.

A sharp echo rang through the basement. The punch landed square in the center of his abs. Ben didn’t flinch. He didn't even grunt. No, Ben just hung there from the beam, held his form like he was some God of muscle. With a smirk, with a silent dare and the heat of the moment VERY heavy on both of them, he held position mid push up. James could feel the electricity, the blood rushing to... places. The need was there and more was wanted. James pulled back for another.

THUD.

Flesh on flesh. Bone behind the blow. James put his back into it this time. Yet still, Ben’s abs resisted. The muscle barely compressed, and when James stepped back for a half second, he could still see the deep ridges standing proud, marked only by the glisten of sweat and the soft red bloom from impact.

THUD. 

"Again"

THUD.

"AGAIN!"

James wasn’t holding back, he couldn’t. He needed to feel it, to know just how far Ben could go, how much he could take. Each hit rocked his shoulder, his core twisting with the follow-through, knuckles sinking in but always meeting the same unyielding resistance. Like punching carved granite warmed by body heat. Ben’s breath hitched but never broke rhythm. His jaw clenched. His body didn’t give, not even a millimeter. The deeper James punched, the harder Ben’s abs seemed to answer back. Inviting it. Daring him. There was sweat now, on both of them. James’s chest heaved, his knuckles pink from the force, his eyes wide in some mixture of awe, challenge, and desire. 

"More" 

Ben hung from the ceiling beam like a sculpture of control, arms taut, lats spread wide, his entire frame stretched into something almost mythic. His abs were fully exposed, those deep, defined bricks that flexed with each breath, gleaming faintly under the low basement light. Sweat rolled down his torso in slow, deliberate trails, collecting in the grooves of his stomach and dripping off the edge of his ribcage. James stood a few steps away, his knuckles already reddened from the hits he had thrown, hits that would’ve doubled over most men by now. But Ben wasn’t most men. He hadn’t moved once. Hadn’t grunted. Hadn’t even flinched. Just kept hanging there, relaxed but firm, breathing slow and steady like this was all a game to him. Worse still was the look on his face—a half-smile tugging at his lips, eyes half-lidded, smug and knowing.

James hated that look... and maybe he craved it too. 

With a low growl, and shorts stiff as hell, James stepped forward and slammed a fist into Ben’s gut, dead center. The sound echoed, sharp and meaty, and James felt the resistance in his wrist, the sheer immovability of Ben’s core. Ben’s abs rippled beneath the strike, his only visible reaction, but otherwise, he stayed still. The beam creaked slightly under his weight, his biceps corded tight, but the rest of him remained perfectly composed. James stepped in again, he threw another punch. Then another. One low, one high, then a brutal hook that twisted his own spine.

Nothing.

Ben just exhaled softly through his nose, his mouth curling into that damn smirk again. James’ breath caught. His pulse was racing, part fury, part fascination, part wanting to whip it out and...  Each punch now came harder than the last, and with each strike, he pushed more into it. Not just muscle now, but something deeper. Desire. Frustration. Admiration. Appreciation. Lust. Every emotion balled up in his fists and thrown into Ben’s stomach like a confession.He could feel the heat between them building, thickening the air. Could feel the way Ben’s skin grew slicker with each drop of sweat, the way his chest heaved slightly more with every blow. The only thing James could visibly measure, aside from the smug confidence, was the way Ben’s shorts were slowly tightening. The fabric clung lower, hugged closer. That undeniable outline growing more pronounced, pressing against the waistband with every fresh impact.

And Ben still hadn’t said a word.

James panted, sweat dripping from his hairline. He drove in again. And again. Knuckles slamming into a wall of muscle that refused to crumble. Ben’s core flexed in perfect time, catching every blow, eating every shot like it fed something primal in him. James hit until his arms shook. Until his lungs burned. Until the raw force of each punch sent a tremor through his whole frame.

Still, Ben just hung there, glistening, grinning, unbroken.

James dropped his hands, chest heaving, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and something darker. He looked at Ben’s abs again, glowing with exertion and defiance. Then after a moment of breath, Ben finally lowered himself down from the beam in one smooth motion, landing firm on his feet. His abs… barely marked. Still flexed, hard, shining with effort. James stared. His hands were still curled into fists, but his jaw had slackened just a bit.

No words still.

But the tension? Oh, the tension was louder than any echo.

Ben finally smiled. A low, knowing smirk. And then, for the first time since it all began, he spoke. 

“You want something really hot?”

James didn’t answer out loud, he didn’t need to. The look on his face, the sharpness of his own shorts now, it said all that needed to be said. Ben’s stance shifted. Just slightly. His legs stayed planted, arms at his side, but the change was unmistakable.

Ben unflexed.

And then, slowly, deliberately because the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, he raised his arms overhead. His hands folded behind his head, elbows angled out wide, exposing everything. Ben’s abs, already stunning in their strength, now lay bare in a way that felt almost obscene. Still defined, still perfectly etched, but softened from their earlier tension, no longer armored, no longer braced. Just exposed muscle, unguarded, vulnerable. The way his torso stretched under the basement light made it look almost unreal, like something carved, not grown, like something displayed to be worshiped. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, each breath widening the plane of his ribs, making every groove stand out more starkly. There wasn’t a single hair to obscure the view; Ben’s body was smooth, glistening, glimmering with sweat. 

James’ brain shorted, he couldn't think, he couldn’t move for a second.

But that smirk? That nod from Ben? The ever so slight signal of approval, of challenge? Oh hell that did it. James stepped forward, his fist rising before his mind even caught up.

WHUMP.

The punch sank in deep. James felt it all the way through his wrist, soft resistance giving way to heat and depth. No tension to bounce off now, only muscle yielding and absorbing. Ben let out a breath, not a grunt, not a cry, just an exhale. The sound of a man who wanted this, and wanted more. His torso dipped slightly forward from the force, but his arms stayed locked behind his head.

THUD.

The next hit went even deeper. James’ knuckles pushed into Ben’s core like it was molding around them. Ben’s eyes fluttered half closed, a shiver of something dark and pleased moving across his features. His lips parted, just a little. James lost himself in the moment, a moment of another hit. Then another. Then a string of them, each one like an admission, a confession, a need. He began throwing them in rhythm, low and fast, targeting the entire center line of Ben’s body: just above the navel, across the obliques, just under the ribs. Every strike made Ben’s midsection tremble under the force, the muscles reacting and quivering but never tightening.

WHUMP. 

WHUMP. 

WHUMP.

The sound filled the basement, dull and thick and relentless. Each hit made James feel more alive, more connected, more seen than anything in recent memory. James adjusted, came in closer, and threw a low uppercut that drove straight up into Ben’s gut, just beneath the belly button. Ben’s abs folded around it. He let out a strained exhale, sharp, shuddering, but didn’t move, didn’t protest. Just stood there with his arms still overhead, his body welcoming every impact like it meant something more.

And maybe it did.... maybe it wanted more. 

James’ breathing was ragged. His eyes flicked up to Ben’s face, lips parted, jaw clenched, that smugness replaced now by something breathless and darkly satisfied. His gaze dropped again, to where Ben’s abs were red and tender, practically pulsing. And then lower still.Ben’s shorts had grown tighter. Visibly tighter. James didn’t say a word. He just drew his fist back again, locked eyes with Ben, and drove another punch home, as deep as he could go.

WHUMP.  

THUD.  

SMACK.

James didn’t stop.

His fists moved with brutal consistency, each punch sinking into Ben’s unflexed core like it was sculpting him in real time. He didn’t aim for variety, he didn’t need to. He aimed for effect. Same spot. Over and over. Fist to flesh. Blunt force hammering into soft, open muscle.

Thud. 

Thud. 

THUD.

Ben grunted, over and over, but never gave. His arms stayed locked behind his head, chest open, neck taut, abs red and swelling with impact. They rippled under every hit, reacting, folding slightly, then reshaping just as quickly. But never tensing. Never closing off. Never surrendering. 

WHUMP. 

WHUMP.

James could see the depth each punch reached, how the skin gave, how the meat underneath folded around his knuckles. Sweat streamed down Ben’s torso, tracing every groove, catching in the dents where James had driven his will into him. 

THUD.

Another punch. Another test. And Ben passed it, again and again. Ben let out a sharp exhale, his eyes half lidded, mouth twitching more at the corners. Not from weakness. From satisfaction. His body stayed open still. His jaw stayed clenched. He took it. Every hit. Without retreat, without defense. It was as if the pain made him stronger, more sure of himself, more alive.

Then Ben dropped his arms.

It was slow and very very deliberate. They slid down from behind his head and came to rest at his sides, shoulders relaxed, palms open. The shift in posture made his entire torso stretch subtly, his chest lifting, pecs bouncing slightly from the movement. The muscle rolled, firm and proud, glistening with sweat. His abs, already reddened and tender, remained exposed, unflexed, unguarded.

James froze for half a breath.

Something about the image, those heaving pecs, the soft rise and fall of breath over brutalized abs, broke something loose in him. Any restraint left evaporated. He went wild.

THUD. 

WHUMP. 

THUMP.

His fists became a blur, powered by instinct and raw hunger. Each hit dug deeper, each strike forcing more air from Ben’s lungs. Ben rocked slightly with the force, his abs folding in around each punch before rebounding, reshaping themselves just in time to take the next. But this time taking longer to do so... 

WHAM. 

WHUMP. 

THUD.

Ben grunted, louder now. Still standing, still open, but the toll was visible. His abs were flushed dark red, even purple in places, trembling under the constant abuse. Sweat poured down his sides, dripping off his waistline. His breathing came harsher, like he was lifting far to much weight but to proud to stop doing it. James didn’t speak and didn't notice. He just kept swinging.

WHUMP. 

WHUMP. 

WHUMP.

Fist met flesh, flesh gave out, Ben's knees trembled once. A small warning. 

WHUD. 

THUD. 

THUMP.

James fists kept falling like sledgehammers, each one a cruel exclamation mark against Ben’s middle. The red on Ben’s abs had deepened to something raw, ugly. Angry welts formed just beneath the surface, evidence of how long he’d stood there, letting himself be wrecked. His stomach no longer bounced back with each hit. It sank, folding inward, absorbing the punishment like wet clay. His breaths came faster now, no longer slow and even, shorter, sharper, ragged. Still, he didn’t raise his arms, but other things sure did. 

WHUMP.

A hit landed just above his navel. Ben’s mouth parted, a gasp escaping, almost a choke. His legs twitched, a wet mark appeared on his shorts. He took a half-step back, but caught himself. Feet rooted again. Arms still low. Eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched. Holding on, but just. 

THUD. 

WHUMP. 

THUD.

Another series. James was relentless. Sweat dripped from his brow, his knuckles red, but he wasn’t done. Not while Ben stood. Ben’s abs were shuddering now, visibly reacting to every strike. The muscle twitched and jumped under the skin, convulsing with each blow. His ribs were starting to heave, sides fluttering. His jaw clenched tighter... a few more hits would do it.  

WHUD.

James twisted his hips into that one, low and vicious. Ben doubled over hard, almost falling into James. His arms trembled. One hand opened and closed like he wanted to lift it, to defend, but he didn’t. He kept them down. The look in his eyes was glazed now. Focused somewhere far off.

THUMP. 

WHUMP. 

THUD.

Ben let out a low groan, almost whispered into James chest. Then it came, a twisting hook right into Ben’s side. James could feel how much give there was from that blow. The tight, unrelenting abs once so hard and unbeatable, failed. His knees bent. His breath hitched.... and then Ben collapsed forward.

Not like a man beaten, more like a man finally letting go. His heavy, muscled frame dropped into James’s arms, forehead brushing James’s shoulder, their slick skin meeting with a hot slap. James caught him without thinking, arms wrapping around Ben’s body, feeling the heat, the pounding of his heart, the twitching of his abused core between them. Ben wasn’t gone. He was there, awake, breathing heavy, but… done. His arms didn’t rise, didn’t push away. Instead, they looped loosely behind James’s back. Holding. For a moment, nothing else moved.

No more punches. No teasing. No pride.

Just two strong men in a quiet, breathless clinch. Ben leaning into the warmth and strength of the man who had tested him. James holding the man who had endured more than most could even imagine. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full. Full of shared effort, respect, and something that words couldn’t quite hold. James finally exhaled, his forehead resting gently against Ben’s temple. 

James moved with surprising gentleness now.

He slid his hands under Ben’s arms, steadying him as he guided him slowly toward the cold, almost embracing cement floor. Ben went willingly, though his legs wobbled, breath shallow and uneven, his abs sore and trembling from the relentless punishment. There was no fear in his eyes, no trace of defeat, just a flicker of uncertainty, a quiet tension beneath the surface. Of, what would come now. You see Ben loved the gut shots, the raw collision of flesh and fist, the sharp edge where pain met pleasure, where power was tested and earned. But now, his core was fried. Every muscle pulsed with exhaustion. One more strike, just one, could push him over the edge, into real damage.James saw it. He read it clear on Ben’s face before a single word was spoken. And then, to Ben’s surprise and later relief, no fists came.

Instead, just warmth.

James sank to his knees beside him, hands resting lightly on Ben’s hips. His lips found the red, battered skin just above Ben’s navel, a gentle press, soft and unhurried. Another kiss, lower this time, right where the deepest punch had landed. Ben’s breath caught, sharp and involuntary. Again. Another kiss. Another spot where pain had blossomed now kissed away with deliberate tenderness. James’ lips moved slowly, reverent even, tracing bruises like he could soothe them with his touch. Ben leaned back fully against the cold floor, eyes fluttering closed. His head thudded softly against the hard surface, arms falling loose at his sides. His body was still, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow ebb of tension melting into peace.

This was why it worked between them. Why nothing could break them.

Because beneath every fight was care.

Unshakable. Unspoken. Real.

Because being a man’s man wasn’t just about the fights or the flexing.

It was about this, too. About understanding what came after. About knowing when strength meant throwing punches, and when strength meant kissing bruises. James understood that, better than anyone. Ben let his eyes roll back, lids heavy, mouth parted in a quiet exhale as James continued the slow, soft trail across his abs.

A warm tongue flicked over a tender spot.
A soft breath ghosted over aching skin.
Fingers brushed down his side, reassuring and present.

Ben’s breath caught.
His eyes fluttered.
His back pressed into the ground.

The kisses continued, downward, inward, with deliberate care. But there was something else in them now. Not just healing. Not just affection. There was intent. A low sound escaped Ben’s throat, part moan, part sigh, as James’s lips pressed lower, his hands sliding further around Ben’s waist, fingertips teasing sweat-slick skin. Each kiss lingered longer than the last. His mouth explored like he was still mapping the damage, but with the kind of focus that made Ben’s pulse quicken. 

Yeah....
This was another perk of dating a man’s man.
The kind who could throw a punch, then kiss it better.
The kind who didn’t stop at tenderness when there was still so much more to give.

And from the way James’s kisses were traveling,
This cardio part of their workout wasn’t quite over yet.

 

 

 

 

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