Ficlet: Dense
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finalfantasyxivfanworksTitle: Dense
Characters: Warrior of Light/Aymeric de Borel
Rating T
Warning: None
Aymeric grunted when his back hit the training mat for the fifth time that hour, winded and aching and thoroughly, utterly, satisfied.
“Getting tired, handsome?”
“Beaten up, more like,” Aymeric replied breathlessly, tilting his head back to shoot Aza a smile when his partner leaned over him, “I think my bruises have bruises.”
“Well, it’s good for you,” Aza said cheerily, squatting down next to him, his forearms resting on his thighs, “You’ve been getting out of shape, trapped behind that desk of yours. You needed a good thrashing.”
A thrashing. Well, that was an accurate way of describing what had just happened. Admittedly, when Aymeric had approached Aza with a request to do some light sparring, just to scrape the rust off his martial skills, he had expected his partner to be, not quite gentle, but to hold his punches somewhat. Of course, Aymeric was quickly punished for his assumption of Aza pulling his punches on anything, and had just spent the last hour getting grappled, wrestled and thrown to total submission by a man almost half his size.
“Been getting soft,” Aza continued, a light, teasing lilt seeping into his husky voice, “See?”
“Oof,” Aymeric squirmed when Aza abruptly prodded him hard in the stomach, somehow managing to shove his partner’s jabbing fingers away, “Ow. That hurt.”
“Because you’re gotten soft,” Aza tutted, but he didn’t seem displeased about it. He rocked back on his heels, so he flopped gracelessly onto his arse instead, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs, his tail lazily curled on the training mat next to him, “I think you’ve been having too many of those lemon crinkles.”
“Says the man who inhaled an entire platter of them within a minute. You know, it is unfair how you keep such a perfect six-pack whilst eating your body weight in all sorts of confectionary,” Aymeric grumbled, negotiating with his aching limbs enough to sit up. Something audibly popped in his back, and he grunted, slowly rolling his shoulders.
Aza was eyeing him critically, a small crinkle between his eyebrows, “You alright? I didn’t crack anything, did I?”
“No, no. I’m in one piece, love,” Aymeric shot him a reassuring smile, relieved when Aza’s worried look eased into a warm smile, “I think I might have to use you as a crutch back upstairs, though. I feel like your ‘thrashing’ has aged me thirty decades.”
“I can carry you,” Aza said simply, “That is, if you won’t find it too embarrassing being carried by a man half your size.”
“Half? I’d say… two thirds at most,” Aymeric said, “If anything I’d find you carrying me delightful. So rarely do I get to admire your strength so intimately…”
“You admired it intimately about a minute ago, when I tossed you across the room.”
Aymeric rolled his eyes, catching Aza’s teasing grin. The man was being deliberately obtuse, “Or I can carry myself to the bath to enjoy some private time-”
“Okay, okay,” Aza said quickly, “I’ll carry you. You can even paw at me if you want.”
“Thanks for the invitation to grope as I please,” Aymeric said dryly, though it was a nice thought. Aza was shirtless, displaying his solidly built torso in all of its dark-skinned, heavily scarred glory. Aymeric never tired of staring at his partner’s muscular frame – in fact, it was probably a mercy that Aza insisted on wearing bulky armour in public, otherwise he’d be a menace to Aymeric’s productivity whenever his partner invaded his office to chat with him if he wore anything remotely flattering to his body. Thank Halone for Aza’s breastplate, protecting everyone from the seductive powers of his pecs.
As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Aza let out an amused noise and said, “Let me put on a shirt first.”
“Ah, there’s no need to…”
Aza pushed himself to his feet and wandered to the edge of the small training room to pick up the light, cotton tunic he’d been wearing at the beginning of their ill-advised training session. Tugging it over his head carelessly, Aza meandered back, brushing his hands down the front in an attempt to smooth the tunic out.
“There. Alright, handsome,” Aza said cheekily, squatting down next to him and reaching out, “Come and swoon into my strong, manly arms.”
“I will not swoon,” Aymeric said primly, but he did willingly allow himself to be scooped up into said strong, manly arms without a fuss.
Despite being only five fulms, Aza supported his weight well enough in his arms. They probably looked ridiculous – actually, no, Aymeric knew they looked ridiculous – but they were in the privacy of his own home, so what did he care? No, all he cared about was feeling the firm flex of Aza’s biceps as he held him in a strong bridal carry, the dense muscle of his shoulder beneath his palm as he encircled an arm around the back of Aza’s neck to better steady himself, the way Aza did all this without a single stutter in his breathing, easily supporting him like he weight nothing at all.
For, while Aza was small, even for a Miqo’te, he was dense with muscle. He was strong from decades of fighting and working, with hands as heavily calloused as any Ishgardian farmer and carrying scars from all manners of weapons and beasts. Aymeric knew many of the Ishgardian nobles thought Aza too rough, too bulky and too wild to be an attractive partner, but Aymeric loved him all the same. He always had a weakness for men with more muscle than sense (Estinien’s words, but true, considering he also fell under the category of ‘more muscle than sense’).
“We should probably limber up too,” Aza said as he carried him up the stairs – carefully, in an attempt to stop Aymeric’s feet from knocking against the bannister, “You know, stretch off after our hot bath.”
“Is that what we’re going to be calling it?” Aymeric asked wryly, “’Stretching it off’?”
Aza huffed, “I really do mean stretching as stretching,” A pause, “But if you wanna make it fun too…”
“I am always up for making things fun.”
“You’re such a pervert,” Aza said, sounding delighted, “Mm, alright, fine. But after we do some actual stretching. I’m not going to sit through you whining tomorrow morning because you stiffened up during the night and can’t get out of bed.”
“I wouldn’t mind being stuck in bed for one day.”
“You’ll fucking hate it,” Aza said dryly, “You’ll feel like you’re being lazy and try to escape before noon even hit.”
Well… yeah, okay, that’s exactly what would happen, except- “I’d last until two in the afternoon, at least.”
“Psh, as if. You always go for a piss by dawn. Once you’re up, you’re up. Eleven in the morning, at the latest.”
“One,” Aymeric countered, feeling the stirrings of meeting a challenge now, “And I can take mid-morning naps if I feel like it.”
“Yeah, but you get grouchy when you do,” Aza muttered.
“I do not get grouchy-”
They continued their inane yet comfortable bantering all the way up to the bathroom, and even though Aymeric was sore and tired, he was so terribly satisfied and content. He was certain somewhere in Halone’s Halls, Lord Borel was probably spluttering himself into his second grave at his adopted son shacking up with a rowdy, buff Miqo’te man instead of a lady noble, but he knew he would have been happy for him all the same. Lord Borel always advised him to find a partner that suited him, rather than a partner to suit his station.
And Aza, who pushed him to be better and better, suited him very well.
Characters: Warrior of Light/Aymeric de Borel
Rating T
Warning: None
Aymeric grunted when his back hit the training mat for the fifth time that hour, winded and aching and thoroughly, utterly, satisfied.
“Getting tired, handsome?”
“Beaten up, more like,” Aymeric replied breathlessly, tilting his head back to shoot Aza a smile when his partner leaned over him, “I think my bruises have bruises.”
“Well, it’s good for you,” Aza said cheerily, squatting down next to him, his forearms resting on his thighs, “You’ve been getting out of shape, trapped behind that desk of yours. You needed a good thrashing.”
A thrashing. Well, that was an accurate way of describing what had just happened. Admittedly, when Aymeric had approached Aza with a request to do some light sparring, just to scrape the rust off his martial skills, he had expected his partner to be, not quite gentle, but to hold his punches somewhat. Of course, Aymeric was quickly punished for his assumption of Aza pulling his punches on anything, and had just spent the last hour getting grappled, wrestled and thrown to total submission by a man almost half his size.
“Been getting soft,” Aza continued, a light, teasing lilt seeping into his husky voice, “See?”
“Oof,” Aymeric squirmed when Aza abruptly prodded him hard in the stomach, somehow managing to shove his partner’s jabbing fingers away, “Ow. That hurt.”
“Because you’re gotten soft,” Aza tutted, but he didn’t seem displeased about it. He rocked back on his heels, so he flopped gracelessly onto his arse instead, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs, his tail lazily curled on the training mat next to him, “I think you’ve been having too many of those lemon crinkles.”
“Says the man who inhaled an entire platter of them within a minute. You know, it is unfair how you keep such a perfect six-pack whilst eating your body weight in all sorts of confectionary,” Aymeric grumbled, negotiating with his aching limbs enough to sit up. Something audibly popped in his back, and he grunted, slowly rolling his shoulders.
Aza was eyeing him critically, a small crinkle between his eyebrows, “You alright? I didn’t crack anything, did I?”
“No, no. I’m in one piece, love,” Aymeric shot him a reassuring smile, relieved when Aza’s worried look eased into a warm smile, “I think I might have to use you as a crutch back upstairs, though. I feel like your ‘thrashing’ has aged me thirty decades.”
“I can carry you,” Aza said simply, “That is, if you won’t find it too embarrassing being carried by a man half your size.”
“Half? I’d say… two thirds at most,” Aymeric said, “If anything I’d find you carrying me delightful. So rarely do I get to admire your strength so intimately…”
“You admired it intimately about a minute ago, when I tossed you across the room.”
Aymeric rolled his eyes, catching Aza’s teasing grin. The man was being deliberately obtuse, “Or I can carry myself to the bath to enjoy some private time-”
“Okay, okay,” Aza said quickly, “I’ll carry you. You can even paw at me if you want.”
“Thanks for the invitation to grope as I please,” Aymeric said dryly, though it was a nice thought. Aza was shirtless, displaying his solidly built torso in all of its dark-skinned, heavily scarred glory. Aymeric never tired of staring at his partner’s muscular frame – in fact, it was probably a mercy that Aza insisted on wearing bulky armour in public, otherwise he’d be a menace to Aymeric’s productivity whenever his partner invaded his office to chat with him if he wore anything remotely flattering to his body. Thank Halone for Aza’s breastplate, protecting everyone from the seductive powers of his pecs.
As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Aza let out an amused noise and said, “Let me put on a shirt first.”
“Ah, there’s no need to…”
Aza pushed himself to his feet and wandered to the edge of the small training room to pick up the light, cotton tunic he’d been wearing at the beginning of their ill-advised training session. Tugging it over his head carelessly, Aza meandered back, brushing his hands down the front in an attempt to smooth the tunic out.
“There. Alright, handsome,” Aza said cheekily, squatting down next to him and reaching out, “Come and swoon into my strong, manly arms.”
“I will not swoon,” Aymeric said primly, but he did willingly allow himself to be scooped up into said strong, manly arms without a fuss.
Despite being only five fulms, Aza supported his weight well enough in his arms. They probably looked ridiculous – actually, no, Aymeric knew they looked ridiculous – but they were in the privacy of his own home, so what did he care? No, all he cared about was feeling the firm flex of Aza’s biceps as he held him in a strong bridal carry, the dense muscle of his shoulder beneath his palm as he encircled an arm around the back of Aza’s neck to better steady himself, the way Aza did all this without a single stutter in his breathing, easily supporting him like he weight nothing at all.
For, while Aza was small, even for a Miqo’te, he was dense with muscle. He was strong from decades of fighting and working, with hands as heavily calloused as any Ishgardian farmer and carrying scars from all manners of weapons and beasts. Aymeric knew many of the Ishgardian nobles thought Aza too rough, too bulky and too wild to be an attractive partner, but Aymeric loved him all the same. He always had a weakness for men with more muscle than sense (Estinien’s words, but true, considering he also fell under the category of ‘more muscle than sense’).
“We should probably limber up too,” Aza said as he carried him up the stairs – carefully, in an attempt to stop Aymeric’s feet from knocking against the bannister, “You know, stretch off after our hot bath.”
“Is that what we’re going to be calling it?” Aymeric asked wryly, “’Stretching it off’?”
Aza huffed, “I really do mean stretching as stretching,” A pause, “But if you wanna make it fun too…”
“I am always up for making things fun.”
“You’re such a pervert,” Aza said, sounding delighted, “Mm, alright, fine. But after we do some actual stretching. I’m not going to sit through you whining tomorrow morning because you stiffened up during the night and can’t get out of bed.”
“I wouldn’t mind being stuck in bed for one day.”
“You’ll fucking hate it,” Aza said dryly, “You’ll feel like you’re being lazy and try to escape before noon even hit.”
Well… yeah, okay, that’s exactly what would happen, except- “I’d last until two in the afternoon, at least.”
“Psh, as if. You always go for a piss by dawn. Once you’re up, you’re up. Eleven in the morning, at the latest.”
“One,” Aymeric countered, feeling the stirrings of meeting a challenge now, “And I can take mid-morning naps if I feel like it.”
“Yeah, but you get grouchy when you do,” Aza muttered.
“I do not get grouchy-”
They continued their inane yet comfortable bantering all the way up to the bathroom, and even though Aymeric was sore and tired, he was so terribly satisfied and content. He was certain somewhere in Halone’s Halls, Lord Borel was probably spluttering himself into his second grave at his adopted son shacking up with a rowdy, buff Miqo’te man instead of a lady noble, but he knew he would have been happy for him all the same. Lord Borel always advised him to find a partner that suited him, rather than a partner to suit his station.
And Aza, who pushed him to be better and better, suited him very well.
