Christmas Story (3)

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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Christmas Eve came quietly this year, as it had for some years now. Not saying that's a bad thing mind you, after 360 some days of going nuts, screaming, yelling, working your ass off, some quite time would always be welcome. No kids screaming at the top of their lungs. No chaos of having to go outside with people. No last-minute scrambling for this or for that. Yeah, definitely a good thing. Peaceful and relaxing. Just steady snowfall and the low hum of a house that had been lived in for some time now, the one they had been sharing for so many years it no longer felt like something either of them had ever moved into. It simply existed, like it had always been theirs. The snow wasn’t loud or dramatic either. It didn’t swirl or howl. It fell gently, steadily, the kind that softened edges and muted the world. The kind that made everything feel wrapped up tight, like that ugly Christmas sweater Cody refused to get rid of no matter how many times Evan threatened it.

The only real difference this year? The yard somehow looked smaller than it used to? Maybe it wasn’t the yard at all? Maybe they were just bigger now. They were older, sure. Their thirties had settled into them comfortably, without hurry or regret. But they were broader, heavier in a way that spoke of years spent lifting, working, living. Their bodies carried muscle that hadn’t been rushed or faked, this was real muscled, muscle earned slowly, deliberately, layered over time. They were also worn in. In all the best ways. Cody stepped outside first, boots crunching softly in the snow. The ugly Christmas sweater stretched tight across a body that had only grown denser with the years. Not showy. Not sculpted for mirrors. Just solid and manly as hell. According to Evan. his man, yeah, he was still thick. Still undeniably bear-strong. Man-strong. His shoulders filled the doorway. His chest pressed against the knit fabric. His stomach, still powerful, still legendary, sat beneath it, broader now, built for endurance instead of flash. His hands were bigger too, rougher, the knuckles carrying faint reminders of old gym nights and long workdays. The beard was fuller than it used to be. Dark still, but dusted with gray now, just enough to catch if you knew where to look. Just enough to make Evan smile every time he noticed a new streak. Something about Cody again like fine wine really did it for Evan... and Evan wouldn’t have it any other way.

Speaking of Evan...  

Evan followed him outside a moment later, tugging his hoodie tighter around his thicker frame. He wasn’t the lean kid he once been, hell no, not even close. His shoulders had broadened to match Cody’s. His arms filled out sleeves without effort. His stance carried quiet confidence now, grounded and sure. The boy had become a man, and he really grew into himself. Cody had seen every inch of that growth, the years of work, the setbacks, the determination, the slow realization that he didn’t have to chase anyone anymore. That alone was a turn on, but the muscled body that could rip logs in half? That helped... 

They stood there together in the snow, breath fogging, the house warm and glowing behind them. No words needed yet. Just the quiet understanding that some traditions didn’t fade with age, not that they would want it too...

 

Christmas Story (2)

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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Sora AI Video: 1

 

 

 

Time did it's thing and moved without a care of the mortal world. Second became days, and days years. That time of the year came and passed many a time before it settled, for a moment on this one. Snow drifted down in slow, lazy flakes across the backyard, it was once again the kind of Christmas Eve snow that muffled everything and made the world feel gentle. Clean in a way. The porch light glowed warm on the white ground. Cody stood there waiting, sweater on, arms crossed, beard thicker, body broader than ever. In short, twenty five looked good on him. Bigger shoulders, thicker chest hair, abs still carved, but now under a strongman layer of mass. More bear than boy. Cody had grown into manhood and made absolutely no apologizes for it. 

Without missing a beat, Evan stepped out behind him and almost laughed out loud.

“Dude… you’re like a Christmas lumberjack now.”

“Glad you noticed. Now come on.”

Cody didn’t even pretend to hide the smirk. They stood facing each other in the snow, breath drifting like smoke in the cold air. They hadn’t missed a Christmas Eve gut-punch tradition since they were eighteen, and even though they were older, busier, and way more grown into themselves, some things didn’t change. Why would they? Guys can be attached to things too, ours are just... a bit more odd. 

“Ready to unwrap your present?” Cody teased.

Evan’s most definitely grown now, still managed to a grin spread wide and still boyish.
“Yeah. Yeah I am.”

A Christmas Story (1)

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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Sora AI Video: 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the most wonderful time of the year! That is, if you are all for the hype and believe the song that's blasted on everything with a speaker a hundred times a day. Malls were filled with overly energetic children and burnt out parents. Nights have become quite, still, and cold. Snowflakes drifted down in slow, lazy spirals, dusting the quiet suburban and city yards in white. At one such place, a porch light glowed warm against the cold, and two young men stood on the walkway, shivering only a little, but grinning a lot. As they held each other wand watched the snow, both could think of no where else they would rather be. It was their first Christmas together, as in together together, and they were both way to excited about it. Their parents, blissfully, were both supportive and over joyed at the new couple, and were currently leaving them alone. Two men? Raging hormones? ALONE! What could possibly go wrong? Evan tugged at the hem of his tank top, the absolute perfect clothing to be wearing in the snow by the way, his breath fogging in the winter air. He was already laughing.

“Dude, you are insane,” he said, stamping his feet in the snow, but clearly no anger in his voice. “Who drags their boyfriend outside on Christmas Eve? In a tank no less!”

 

The other young man, Cody, was wearing the world’s ugliest knitted Christmas sweater. It assaulted the eyes with reds, greens, and was of course violently glittery. It even had a button you could press to make the whole damn thing light up and sing. Cody loved it, Evan pretended to hate it. But that was their thing, well one of them. Evan was the one who looked like a bad boy but was the calm one, and totally devoted to his Cody. Cody was always the jokester, always full of ridiculous ideas, and always the one who could talk Evan into anything. Cody knew dragging Evan outside on Christmas Eve was ridiculous. Hell, he counted on it being ridiculous. That was half the fun. But seeing Evan out there in the snow, with that damn messy hair, a tank top that did absolutely nothing to hide the body under it, cheeks already red from the cold... Cody felt that warm, stupid flutter in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

 

“Because,” Cody announced dramatically, “it’s time for you to unwrap your present.”

 

Evan snorted. “Oh really?” he said, hands on hips. “Time to unwrap my present, huh?”

 

Blood, Brick, and Justice

Series: 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.

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Anwar had always been about doing the right thing, even when it hurt. Ok, especially when it hurt. As a boy in Cairo, he never tolerated bullies, never liked it when the bigger meaner people picked on the weaker ones. He would fight for what was right, and would fight for them. Of course, that usually meant he was the one walking home with a bloody nose, a split lip, and a stubborn smile that said he had do it all again tomorrow. His attitude was kind, but definitely of a young man who would never learn a lesson. No was just a suggestion to him, especially when it came to protecting others. Teachers told him to keep his head down, that he didn't want this drama. His mother, bless her, begged him to stop getting into fights. Just go to school, do your work, and cause no trouble. His father? Never said much, but there was silent approval in what his boy was doing. In that never give up attitude. Yet, no matter what many other people said, something in him couldn’t just stand by when someone weaker was being pushed around.

That something, what ever it was, never faded.

How Twink-ish

Series: 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. 

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Sora AI Video: 1  

 

In any male social circle, whether it's among office workers, bar buddies, gym rats, or late-night gaming squads, there’s always a kind of unspoken hierarchy. It doesn’t have to be macho or alpha-driven, or about blood sweat and muscle. Sometimes it’s about skill, like who pulls the most clutch wins in War-zone or who leads the raid party with the cleanest strategy. Sometimes it's even about who knows the most obscure movie quotes or who can fix a broken graphics card in five minutes flat. But no matter what metric it's built on, there’s a pecking order. One guy always ends up being the “top dog” and the others fall into place beneath, either content or quietly competing.

It's just a male thing.

Yet from time to time, that order gets... lets say blurry. Someone challenges the established setup, intentionally or not. Ego gets bruised. Tensions brew. And when logic and banter stop working, some guys feel the need to settle things in more... physical ways.

That’s exactly how this bizarre little showdown started.

Two of the smartest, quick thinking, nerdiest dudes in their circle. Both legendary in their gaming community. Both proud of their strategic minds and lightning thumbs. But only one could be top nerd. Only one could have the right to rule over them all. So, naturally when all else failed, they ditched the keyboards and controllers... and settled it with their fists. Or at least they tried to. Neither had much muscle, or muscle at all. Neither had a history of violence, in real life combat, or the ability to properly throw a punch. But that didn't matter, when two males made up their minds, brains took a back seat.

And the Great Nerd Fight began.

The basement was cramped, the carpet thin and worn, and the only light came from a flickering overhead bulb, but to these two, it may as well have been an arena. Without a word, both men pulled off their shirts. They had seen enough action movies to know that real fights didn’t happen fully clothed. There was something about bare chests, no matter how skinny or underwhelming, that made it feel official. Primal. Ritualistic, even.

First was Tae-hyun. He was lean, smooth-skinned, not a trace of body hair on his chest or arms, not from shaving, like some men did to show off definition, but simply because there was none to begin with. Genetics had gifted him a clean canvas. Born in South Korea, he carried himself with a subtle precision, controlled, careful, always composed, even now. Tae-hyun adjusted the frame of his shoulders, the overhead light catching on the slight sheen of sweat forming along his collarbone. He thought about tugging off his glasses but then decided against it. He wanted to see after all.

He was ready.

His opponent in this battle would be Faisal. Faisal stepped forward with quiet confidence, his wiry frame betraying none of the certainty in his stride. Unlike his smooth skinned friend, Faisal’s body was coated in a thick layer of hair. His chest, arms, even the tops of his shoulders were all covered, giving him a rugged look that clashed with his lack of muscle. But Faisal didn’t rely on strength. He didn’t need to. His power came from his mind. An expert in strategy games, chess, StarCraft, war sims, he prided himself on thinking five moves ahead. He had beaten guys twice his size by knowing exactly when to bait, when to feint, and when to strike. Well online at least... but he was ready. 

Couples Workout

Series: 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. 

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AI Fun: 1 

 

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.  

 

Never Piss of the Humble Guy

Series: 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. 

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In reality, Vic was an up-and-coming kick boxer, he has a decent build, good skill but still a LOT to learn. So day after day, match after match, he carried himself like the whole world already knew the truth. He. Was. God. His frame was cut lean, cords of muscle wrapped tight around him like rope. Every motion carried a kind of sharp snap, like a blade coming out of its sheath. In the gym, he worked harder than anyone, but he made sure everyone noticed. In the ring, he fought meaner than anyone, and he made damn sure everyone remembered. Broken bones, bleeding, bruising, that was his signature, and he didn't care how the other guy wound up. Just as long as they, and everyone, knew him. And truth be told, and this was the infuriating part, no one could touch him. Opponents walked in with confidence and left staring at the ceiling, clutching their ribs or spitting blood into their gloves. His highlight reels were short because his fights never lasted long. A few brutal kicks, a savage right cross, and down they went. The local promoters whispered that he wasn’t just “good,” he was “next.” The name Vic started to circulate beyond the town’s borders. But of course, the more he won, the worse he got. Every KO swelled his ego, every headline fed the fire. Humility wasn’t in his vocabulary. Outside the ring, he strutted like he owned the ground under his boots. At bars, at clubs, on the street didn't matter, if someone mouthed off, Vic’s knuckles or knees did the talking. Broken ribs were his calling card, bruises the souvenirs he left behind. And if he was in a bad mood?

Well, people learned quickly to clear a path.

Friends tried to talk him down. Coaches warned him about burning bridges. But Vic didn’t care. He was the man. Everyone was just jealous of him. Everyone else was just waiting their turn to be humbled by him. So when the next fight opportunity landed on his lap, he didn’t even blink. He didn’t ask who he was fighting, didn’t bother to study tape or ask about style. To him, it was simple: another payday, another win, another poor bastard to add to the list of victims. A long list he didn't even know (or care to know) the name of. He smirked as he scribbled his name across the sign-up sheet. No hesitation. No second thought. Just a lean, hungry fighter too arrogant to imagine that this time might be different.

 

 

His name was Kenji Sato.

He came from a village most maps didn’t bother marking, a forgotten patch of earth in the mountains where the roads broke down to gravel and the houses leaned tiredly against each other like old men too stubborn to fall. Kenji had grown up in those dust thick streets, barefoot and thin, working odd jobs before he was old enough to know what childhood was supposed to feel like. His father had died when he was just a boy, leaving behind debts no one could pay and a mother too frail to carry the load.

So Kenji carried it.

Day after day, he hauled wood, cleaned stalls, took whatever work people would throw at him. Nights, he trained in secret. An old fighter from the city had retired in the village years ago. Broken body, busted jaw, but sharp eyes and a fire that refused to die. The old man taught Kenji how to fight, how to strike, how to keep breathing when the world was trying to choke him out. Kenji wasn’t born with bulk, but he had wiry muscle, balance, and a stubborn streak that refused to let him quit. Best of all?

He didn’t fight for pride. He fought for survival.

Every tournament he entered, every underground match he scraped through, the money went straight home. Medical bills for his mother. Schoolbooks for his younger brother. Sometimes he walked away from fights bleeding and bruised, but that didn't matter to him. No. what he cared about was walking away with cash in his pocket. Cash that meant food, medicine, life, and that was enough. Humility had been beaten into him by circumstance. He didn’t brag, didn’t boast. He bowed to opponents, win or lose. He didn’t need recognition.

He needed rent money.

So when a promoter whispered about a chance to fight a rising star from overseas, the offer made his stomach tighten. The purse was large, larger than anything he had ever seen. Enough to buy his brother new clothes, enough to put actual meat on the table for months. Maybe enough to send his mother to a real doctor in the city. It was to much, and to damn good. Kenji didn’t hesitate, he couldn't for the sake of his family. He signed his name, quiet as ever, bowing slightly as he handed the form back. Whether he won or lost, he had already won in the only way that mattered. The walk home was one of deep thought. Kenji wasn’t blind or stupid. He had seen Vic’s fights, had heard the stories. The arrogance, the power, the way he cut through opponents like they were nothing. But again, that didn’t matter. Kenji wasn’t stepping into the ring to make a name for himself. He was stepping in to feed his family.

And for that, he would fight until his bones broke.