The Boy [mxb]

34

Ken's workout soundtrack for me is very simple. The playlist consists of, like, ten different songs all called Beastmode.

My injuries have healed up enough to allow me to resume normal workouts, so I've brought my partner over to help me get back into it.

"Spot me," I implore Ken, and by spot I mean berate.

The buildup of lactic acid in my muscle tissue brings both pain and an invigorating rush of euphoria.

"You piece of shit, you call yourself a man?" He starts laying into me at the first grimace.

The onslaught continues as I lift the weights, Ken's hands hovering and ready to grab them if I slip. No work, no glory. If you're not shaking and sore, you're cheating. They're gonna take your city like candy from a baby! The burn is just weakness. Your momma ain't raised no sucker. Feel that burn. Make it count. Wake your ass up; it's time to go Beast Mode! Get it in. Squeeze it out. Discipline, motherfucker. No pain, no gain. Now's when it counts most. Mind over matter, bitch. Suck it up. Endure it. You only get what you earn. That's what I'm talking about; that's Beastmode, motherfucker.

My skin is slick, eyes stinging with the sweat bleeding from my pores, neck hot, hair soaked, veins bulging, lungs heaving, skin flushed red, muscles quivering and straining. If I cry out, Ken just berates me harder - but it's because he cares. I was at the hospital the other day visiting some old friends from the precinct with horrible on-duty injuries, so bad I threw up on my way out. Ken and I are just trying to make sure we're prepared for anything.

But Ciel has a different strategy. He likes to kneel or sit cross-legged beside me with his chin propped up in his hands and his elbows digging into his knees, and just look at me. As though my body is the most beautiful and complex form in nature. Like I'm a masterpiece and not the cosmic accident I probably am.

Gently and with great awe, he'll smooth his hands along my skin, occasionally surveying my face for confirmation that it's okay to touch me.  

"Alright, get your pathetic bitch-ass up and let's see some push-ups," Ken orders.

The mat is soaked, the air filled with my gasps and grunts, cloyed with the scent of perspiration. I've taken my mind to another plain. Underneath me, Ciel is lovingly stroking my guns and kissing them all over, even the scabs, scars and fading bruises. His position underscores his trust in me; he knows I won't collapse and crush him to death. He believes I have the strength to keep going, and that trust is motivating.

"Daddy's taking good care of you," he croons, massaging my triceps with both hands. He's very gentle and adoring.

Moments later, his face crumples up. "Ew, some of your sweat got on me." He wipes his forehead and I gasp an apology. Laughing, he leans up to kiss my throat, then my Adam's apple.

Next, I work on my thighs and glutes. For thrust power, Ken always liked to say while snapping his hips in a crude gesture.

"Okay." Ken looks up from his stopwatch. "Crunches, let's go. Ciel, sit on his legs, please."

I flip over onto my back, rolling Ciel on top of me. His shirt rides up as his hands scramble for purchase on the mat, and I take the opportunity to blow into his bellybutton. He shrieks, jackknifing upright. "I'm not gonna help you if you do that!"

Ciel plants himself in position and just watches me intently as I work my abs.

He has a way of looking at you like you're just oozing sex appeal. I feel like this superhero with a huge build, all bulging muscle like a rock wall, effusing heat and virility, just a hundred kilos of pure sex.