I hear my mom shrieking downstairs, shouting up to me about “THE CATS! THE CATS!”
I run downstairs, thinking someone has died or something and see THIS:
I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO PUNCH SOMETHING TO GET OVER THE ADORABLENESS
Fang laughed a bit rather enjoying his comeback comment. “I don’t know. I got guns of my own.” she smirked flexing her arms and allowing her own biceps to pop up for a moment. With a shrug, she settled her arms back to either side of her.
"I can usually get up to one thirty myself with the bar. I can push more with my legs as I use my whole weight for that on the leg presses and what not." she murmured only to take her spot once more to spot her friend just in case. Safety was important in no matter the situation.
Ansem returned his grip to the textured spaces of the bar and lifted upwards. Unlike before, his arms tensed under the heavier weight. “Really,” he sucked in a breath after exhaling “how much do you get up to in each? In weight I mean.” Ansem worked into a steady repetition of pressing the bar and bells up and down. After he felt his muscles strain, he placed the equipment back on the rack to take a short rest.
"Eighty? One hundred?" He looked upward from his laying position on the bench. Ansem’s eyes transparently roamed over Fang’s body in making an estimate. "Stronger legs or arms? Women tend to be the opposite from men."
"Every piece of ink has a story. A way of markin’ the skin but leavin’ meanings behind for passerby’s ta see. Ya learn a bit from people noticin’ the art." she murmured only to chuckle and hush. Fang kept quiet for a bit before Ansem asked about loading the weight up on both sides. She nodded and moved to lift the large round weight up onto the bar with a stretch of her upper body and back. With the right side securely in place, she moved to handle the left to balance it all properly.
She worked up a bit of a sweat herself but she didn’t appear to mind it much. When she finished her task in helping her friend, she grabbed her own towel and wiped the moisture off her skin. “Tryin’ ta handle a lot eh? Guess ya gotta look good for the ladies, hm?” she teased obviously trying to get a laugh out of him. It was easy for her to finally relax a bit instead of being all worked up and tense as she had been for a week.
Ansem adverted his eyes and pursed his lips in trying to suppress a grin. He was glad for his dark skin tone. Fang couldn’t see him blush.
"Ah, I’m just trying to keep the tone I gained last winter. It’s for myself, really. Unless you like it of course. I’m always willing to offer tickets to a world class gun show." He knew what he had said was silly, but he teased her back away. "I can usually press two hundred plus. I’m just taking it easy today."
"I can tell, very nicely done prints. The artist knew what they were doin’." she smiled knowing well to appreciate intricate tattooing when she saw it. She often got comments and questions about her own black ink mark on her left arm. It was quite tribal and to her style but it also held meaning to it for her as well. Noticing the biceps bands, she couldn’t help but smile admiring more of the work on her friend. She also took note of how well he kept in shape and appreciated the sight.
"All the art I have on me is just my tattoo here of my tribe. Sort of a right of passage I got when I turned seventeen. I was told my folks had the same mark so I wear it with a bit of pride." she grinned only to shift to stand behind his head in case the bar slipped as he worked. After all, Fang had promised to spot him and she would do that job with a smirk on her face.
Ansem grunted and forced the weighted bar back up on its resting notches. He took a brief moment to rest and reply. ” That’s incredibly interesting. My inking is really only for personal decoration; nothing special like a right of passage. I suppose though, they mean a little something to me.” It was true that he had gotten them out of his own inward declare of independence after high school. Maybe rebellious, too. He had stayed with his great aunt as a child and young adult, and the old bat never approved of body art.
He gazed upward into Fang’s face and stretched the warmed muscles in his arms. “Would you mind loading fifty five on each side?” Ansem’s eyes darted off to the side in search of the towel he had been using. Since warming up, his forehead and neck had collected more moisture and figured he might as well pat off before moving on to a heavier bench press.