#Open Finger Fingerless Cotton Glove

[tmeglove]

Thickened warm half finger knitted gloves

[adollrable]

Talking in your sleep

ও summary: you hear your boyfriend say things while he sleeps.

ও cw: leon kennedy (re4r) x female reader! fluff, established relationship, him being a sleepyhead!

ও wc: 900

a/n: so i have this little headcanon... that when leon is deep in sleep, he talks while he sleeps... and that's all, it came to me listening to the song by the romantics :p something small (i think) i hope y'all like it =]

You love being with Leon.

You always learn something new with him day by day. Either from the anecdotes of him training in the military, or those (scarce) of him training to be a police officer.

At first he was a closed man, without the slightest desire to open his heart. You changed that, and now you are his little treasure.

There are still things that he hasn't finished showing but as you told him in a memory of your first date, you can go little by little.

Lately, you've learned more about small details and habits that he wouldn't feel comfortable showing around other people, you see more of him as a person.

So, you find yourself mesmerized by every new thing you see in him. Every detail, whether of his body or his personality.

Tiny moles, some acne marks on his cheeks, that stubble that never grows. His hair? How is it so soft and pretty? His fingers feel rough but his palms are very soft, probably because of the fingerless gloves he wears on his missions. His legs are strong but they are cozy when you sit on them for a cuddle session. His arms serve to warm you on those cold nights, and he loves to sleep cuddling next to you.

You also noticed that in public he is usually not a big fan of displays of affection, but in subtle ways he lets others know that you are not available. Hand on your waist, hands intertwined, kisses on your forehead, he offers you his jacket.

But at home? He pampers you as you deserve. Kisses everywhere, hugs from behind while you cook something for both of you, when you are very tired of wearing heels and you get home he doesn't hesitate to pick you up. And the list can continue.

Now... There's a little problem.

It may be silly, but it doesn't stop you from being insecure. And it's ridiculous to be!

But... The times Leon has said I love you are counted. You even think you can count them on the fingers of just one hand.

And you understand that everyone has different languages to express their love to their loved ones... But you bombard him with "i love you's" every day and he responds with a kiss on the cheek.

It sucks to feel insecure about that when it is obvious that the man loves you, even more so knowing that he is still a closed guy about several things.

But still, you can't help it.

You adjust the sheets in your shared room, lying on the bed, followed by Leon who lies on his side. You look at him and smile as you lean down to place a kiss on his forehead to which he smiles slightly. "Is that a good night kiss?" Leon asks as he settled down next to you, resting his head on your chest.

"Mhm, so you have nice dreams." You responded to which the smile on his face remained. You wrapped your arms around him and let out a sigh. His cool skin greeting your hands as you delicately ran them down his back, feeling his muscles relax.

Leon always sleeps without pajamas, and if it's cold he only puts on cotton pants. He says it's enough for him to have you and the sheets to keep him warm.

"Sleep well baby." He says as he similarly wraps his strong arms around you, a firm grip but not so tight as to hurt you. "Sleep well, Lee."

And with that, between small, lazy smiles, you fell asleep.

Until you started hearing things.

Your sleepy mind does its best to bring you back to consciousness, and you come across an image so sweet that it made you smile.

Leon remained asleep on your chest, one arm thrown over your stomach. His cheek was pressed against one of your breasts and made his face bulge, his lips remain in a small pout. You wanted to kiss him until you were tired. But you noticed that he was very asleep.

One of the things you learned about him is that Leon is a light sleeper. At the slightest noise he wakes up.

Leon's missions, in addition to the horrors that come with doing his job and especially the stress, make it very difficult for him to sleep as peacefully as he is doing in your arms. So you are relieved that you can give him a little comfort to sleep so peacefully.

So, you gently ran your hands through his hair, which made him let out a sigh and move to cling closer to you. That made you stop for fear of waking him up, but what he did next surprised you.

You noticed how his lips (still pouting) parted slightly and the noise that made you wake up came from him. You were no stranger to this, as Leon sometimes had nightmares, but this time it was very different than usual.

"Mmph... B-baby?" His voice made you open your sleepy eyes, did you wake him up?

No... He's breathing very calmly. You doubt he's awake.

He tries to hold onto you tighter and tries again, "Babe..." His voice sounds thick and hoarse from his time asleep, and you hesitantly decide to answer him. "Yeah?"

"I love youuu..." He mutters, that made you smile. "I looove you sooooo muuuch." It was funny in a way, his voice was muffled by his bulging cheek.

A small but almost imperceptible giggle took over you. "I love you too, Lee."

That interaction filled your heart with warmth, feeling happy that in his dreams he had the courage to tell you that he loved you. But what you didn't believe was that he would spend the next... Thirty minutes babbling about how much he loves you.

Well... You're probably going to wake up with a headache, but certainly that insecurity that he doesn't tell you that he loves you so often disappeared.

a/n: well, i'm not that sure about this one BUT i like to post silly little things =] i wasn't sure what to say to justify leon saying i love you to reader while he's sleeping LOL sorry about that

i had four exams this week and somehow i managed to approve them so my little treat is writing ;p

i just know this man TALKS embarrassing corny things while he sleeps and i just want him to nap in my arms 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

thanks 4 everyone for reading this, likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🤲🏻🤲🏻🤲🏻 that's all for this time, bye-bye

[works-of-magic]

I love gloves! I only know... Broad Strokes about fashion. Enough to be passable in contests, anyways. No clue what's ~trendy~ or ~taboo~, but gloves, I can do!

Generally for keeping cool, you want something that breathes like cotton or viscose. Natural fibers are better at this than synthetic fibers. Polyester and acetate are synthetic, but acetate is HEAVENLY if you like silky smooth textures. Silk itself, like real genuine silk, is very tough but actually not as smooth as the phrase "smooth as silk" made me think. Acetate is smoother. Usually shiny too, you can leverage that for Aesthetics^tm.

And of course, you always have the option to go fingerless. They have fingerless gloves that go right up to your first knuckle, so it covers your whole palm and back of your hand, and they also have fingerless gloves that leave your palm completely open and only have a wedge on the back of your hand that terminates at a finger loop. The latter is probably cooler. (And more elegant, if you ask me. I like them because they're less restricting. Full fingerless gloves look more badass. Up to preference, really.)

Or if the gloves just go to the end of your palm, rather than down your wrist, that could make a difference how they feel.

The leather ones are great for work, like preventing blisters and pricker bushes, or any long-form gripping jobs, like raking or shoveling. So maybe you can still get some use out of them? Use them as light support braces if your hands get sore?

got leather gloves but theyre way too fuckin warm to be wearing often.. silk gloves it is.

@works-of-magic you seem to know shit about fashion or. at least gloves. advice? suggestions? got any?

[teyvattherapist]

Episodic

My sister and I had a long talk about how we both suffer from dissociation earlier today cause of an ask I got. And I got inspired to write a lil smth. This is based off of my experiences for the most part so anywayss.

tags: gn!doctor!reader + Kaeya, feat Diluc + Venti, dissociation, Kaeya story spoilers, Diluc story spoilers, mental health in general.

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Lies, so many lies, that’s all he was made up of! A liar, a cheat, a fraud, a dirty traitor. Years ago, well into his teens, he wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t give a damn whether or not the nation burned to the ground, he didn’t care if Teyvat as they knew it was ripped away from them and destroyed. But he was older now, and he cared so much. Oh too much. Torn between loyalties, his royal family who abandoned him to help them or the nation that loved and raised him. The lies stacked up, the nightly duties, the work within the shadows, the information he gave to his informants.

The lies were bearing down on him, he was being crushed, lungs screaming for air. It was almost like he was drowning except the ice above his head stopped him from surfacing for air. Kaeya Alberich could swim but he was not strong enough to shatter inches of thick ice. Every drop of water that filled his lungs, every lie that he needed to keep track of, they all froze over eventually. He was heavy, his body felt heavy, his shoulders hurt, and taking in air was a chore. He wished he’d just drown, but he kept scrambling, slamming against the ice, would anybody come-

“Are you even listening?” Diluc sighed, setting the glass down on the bar counter loud enough it shattered Kaeya’s thoughts and he lifted his head from his hand, star pupil blown as he looked around quickly. Diluc raised an eyebrow at the reaction, not expecting it from the ever composed cavalry captain he once called brother. The bar was relatively empty, Venti was asleep at a table tucked in the back. You were leaning against the wall while you did some work at the bar. Kaeya’s breathing was shaky, he realised as he tried to intake air, fill his lungs, stuff down the suffocation.

“Kaeya?” You set your quill down, concern quickly taking over your features. Diluc grabbed the glass Kaeya had been drinking from, opting to dump whatever remained. Kaeya didn’t even react to Diluc’s actions, instead he opted to look at his hands, opening and closing them, he did the action with his palms up and then repeated while looking at the back of his hands. Being a doctor for the knights, dissociation wasn’t the hardest thing for you to recognise. Approaching the situation, however, that was what became difficult.

“I don’t know how much longer I can endure this.” Kaeya’s voice was so weak, like he was testing out a tongue that didn’t belong to him. You stood immediately, Kaeya turning to you in surprise from the sudden action. You held your hands out and Kaeya looked at your waiting hands, he blinked and then looked up to you where he received a quick nod in return, a reassuring smile on your face. Kaeya put his hands into your own, his hands were surprisingly warm even through your gloves, slender fingers curling to intertwine with yours.

You gave his hands a gentle squeeze, he could feel two different sets of eyes staring at him outside of you directly in front of him. The weight of the world was so heavy and he felt himself slipping beneath the current again, it was relentless, endless, it dragged him down, the frozen lake was so dark- “Describe how my hands feel, please. What do my gloves feel like? Temperature?” You did your best to keep your voice reassuring, exceptionally kind as you crouched slightly so you could be at eye height with Kaeya who continued to sit.

The words dragged him to the surface and he struggled to remember who he was beyond all of these damn lies. There were so many lies, so much to hide, so many ties and loyalties oh how they swirled in his head. But he had to focus on the feelings of the gloves, thankful his seemed to be fingerless. “Cotton, your gloves feel like cotton.” He got a reassuring squeeze, an affirmative. Diluc snuck out from the bar, heading to the tavern door to lock it, sure an hour early, but given the circumstances.

“Okay, anything else?”

“Cold.”

“Haha, very good. Do you know your name?”

“Kaeya Ragnvindr. No, wait..” He trailed off, eyebrow furrowing. “I changed it, Alberich.” You quickly nodded, prompting him to continue. “You smell like mint and I smell like wine. Or is that the redhead? I’m not sure.”

“Both, probably.” Diluc responded casually, as if his heart didn’t just shatter hearing Kaeya say his old last name as his own once more. How long had it been since Diluc tore that family name from the navy haired captain? Diluc got closer, standing behind you, enough distance from Kaeya not to overwhelm him, but close enough he could watch.

The water still lapped at his legs, threatening, stabbing into him and trying to drag him back in. But he clawed at the sand, finding hold in the frost covered shore. “Are you back with us then, Kaeya? If not, you could try describing one of us.” You squeezed his hands again and Kaeya slowly nodded, his brain fog was lifting at least, he wasn’t entirely focused on the frozen lake anymore. When had he broken through the ice?

“Whoa, sorry- What happened there?” Kaeya pulled his hands back suddenly, gripping his head in one hand and shaking it with his signature laugh. Diluc had been frowning the entire time, and your reassuring smile vanished in an instant at his new words. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.” Kaeya smiled, turning his head to survey the rest of the empty tavern.

“You were having a dissociative episode. I’d offer a mora for your thoughts but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.” You stood straight again and Kaeya wished you weren’t on his blind side, that way he’d be able to see without turning towards you, instead the cavalry captain eyed the sleeping Venti in the corner. “I’m not going to ask you to talk to me, but at least talk to Diluc about what’s on your mind if nobody else. It will only get worse from here.” You moved by the redhead who made no objections, and you began to gather the paperwork you had been working on.

“I promise, I’m fine. You’re worrying over nothing. And you, Diluc. I didn’t expect such concern.”

“We grew up together. Of course I’m concerned. You’re one of the few competent knights, and they need you to be on your best.” Diluc had his arms crossed over his chest, but he genuinely was trying not to seem so malicious, despite the biting words of his former brother. “How often has this been happening?” Diluc inquired, waiting for Kaeya to actually look back at them, but he never did, calloused fingers gently tapping the wooden bar countertop instead. “Okay, when did it start, then?” Diluc switched questions with a nod from you.

“A few months ago. They only lasted a minute or two, and I’d barely remember what happened. Recently the times I’ve blanked have been longer. I don’t remember what happened since coming in here.” Kaeya’s voice was quiet, low, ashamed maybe. He was so tired of it all, the lies and the burdens. He didn’t want to be a plot point or a chess piece. He just wanted to live his life, free of the whispering secrets of the dark.

“That was seven hours ago. [Name], is that normal?”

“Quite. Some dissociative episodes have been known to last years. The hours will turn to days, days into weeks. You know how it goes. I’ll bring Venti home so you two can speak.” You pulled your bag over your shoulder, heading off to grab the drunk bard from the corner. “Come on, bard. You can stay at my house.” You lifted the man easily, letting Diluc silently unlock and open the tavern door for you. The door was shut and locked once more.

“You don’t have to pretend to care, Diluc. I’m fine.” Kaeya pushed his barstool back, standing to his full height. He was exhausted, his brain fog may have been gone but his body still didn’t feel real and every step he took felt like walking on pins and needles. It didn’t help when Diluc blocked the door though, the usual bored expression replaced with something else.

“I do care, idiot. Whether or not you believe that isn’t my problem. You’re still my brother, even if we never shared any blood. Now you’re going to sit down and we’re going to talk about what happened that night, do you hear me?” Diluc lowered his arms, gaze dropping to anywhere but the captain. “Please, just talk to me. I won’t push you away this time.”

“Do you promise?”

“Obviously.”

[eventidespirits]

Name: Laci Lydia Brighton-Lee

Nicknames/Aliases: None.

True Age: 41

Apparent Age: 22

Emotional Age: 6-22 (average of about 13-17)

Concept: Age Sliding Oracle

Species: Vampire (Revenant)

Gender: Cis Girl

Sexuality: Asexual Heteroromantic

Birthday: January 8th 1976

Death Day: October 31st 1998

Residence: Santa Marta, California

Universe: Primarily Original Universe but also Vampire the Masquerade (where she is Clan Malkavian).

Appearance:

Height: 4'7

Build: Petite and quite thin, Laci looks almost frail to most people and can be easily mistaken for a teen or preteen. She has a short torso and long limbs for her height.

Face Shape: Laci has a rounded face with a pointed chin, full cheeks and high cheekbones.

Eye Color/Shape: bright amber/Hazel. Deep-set with heavy, almost droopy eyelids and very thick lashes. Laci usually has a sort of sleepy look to her eyes, accentuated by her permanent dark circles and under eye bags.

Hair Color/Style: About shoulder length with a natural 2B/2C curl pattern. Her hair is naturally black but she has a badly bleached portion in the front that looks bright orange. Has very short, somewhat uneven bangs and her hair is a little shorter in the front than the back. Usually worn up in pigtails or twin buns.

Skin Tone/Texture: Unnaturally smooth and pale with an under-saturated yellow undertone. Doesn't look particularly healthy.

Distinguishing Features: Laci is very short and this is usually the first thing people notice about her -- she also has very large, expressive eyes. She has both eyebrows pierced, a nostril piercing on her left side and snakebites. Both ears have triple lobe piercings and two helix piercings.

Posture: Depends on her current emotional age but as a general rule, Laci's posture is somewhat folded in on herself, somewhat shy and insecure. When she's at an older emotional age, her posture is more confident and open. Laci's body language is dreamy and distant, her steps usually slow and unsure. She walks through the world like she's in an endless dream.

Voice: Somewhat nasal but with a distinct huskiness/vocal fry -- her actual pitch is somewhat higher and definitely comes across as a little bit childish.

Clothing Style: Laci is very much a goth -- she's almost always wearing at least one piece of clothing with mesh or fishnet (she doesn't like lace as much) -- the primary colors in her wardrobe are black, charcoal gray and purple, with occasional hints of neon green. She prefers pants and shorts with tights over skirts and dresses. She tends to prefer lays -- wearing tank tops over mesh shirts under hooded sweat shirts and so on. She has a fondness for collars and very high platform boots. An average outfit for Laci would be a pair of shorts with striped tights and knee-high socks, 4 inch platform boots, a mesh shirt under a tank top and a short sleeved hoodie with several bracelets, fingerless gloves and a collar of some sort.

Notable Mannerisms: Laci is often chewing on her lower lip or playing with her piercings. She often curls her hair around her fingers or plays with the hem of her short. Despite being a vampire and getting no real benefit or harm from it, Laci still smokes clove cigarettes (a habit she had as a human). Laci also has a tendency to sort of bounce in place when she's bored.

Skills:

Physical: Self-Defense, gymnastics, pickpocketing, small firearms

Social: Social Media, Bullshitting, Sweet-talking, Blame-Shifting, Persuasion

Talents: breaking & entering, stealth, being cute, dancing

Knowledges: Santa Marta Underground, Streets & Back Alleys, Hacking, Computers, Social Media manipulation, explosives, Revenant Signs & Grafitti

Hobbies: Pickpocketing assholes at cafes/coffeeshops, preventing the apocalypse, clubbing, coloring books, dancing, photography/instagram

Special: The Sight, precognition, increased speed & strength, darkvision/nightsight, some minor telepathy/empathy, some emotional influence, "immortality"

Psyche

Strengths: Clever, quick-witted, good at lying, adaptive, quick-learner, strong sense of justice, compassionate, sweet, dedicated/tenacious, in touch with her emotions, good with kids, generally empathetic

Weaknesses: overly-emotional, immature, irresponsible, stubborn, impatient, overly curious, has trouble understanding rationality, has difficulty understanding the motives/perspectives of others even if she can understand their feelings, hot-headed, prone to fits of mania and/or depression, way too fucking blunt at times, bad at explaining herself, bad at understanding her own motives at times.

Mental Health Issues: Bipolar Disorder, Age Regression, Hallucinations, Anxiety, Possible ADHD?

Goals: Stop the God-Damned Apocalypse, have fun, make friends, help people

Guiding Philosophies: Do your best to preserve life but know that in the end you'll have to hurt people to stop the apocalypse, try your best to make people laugh and improve their lives, make the world a better place, punish evil whenever you see it, offer help to the helpless and compassion to the weak and downtrodden of society, bash the fash

Sense of Humor: Laci delights in pulling pranks on her friends or making absolutely random, inane comments that leave others confused. She also likes puns and dumb memes.

Overall Personality:Chaotic and trickster-ish. Laci is an enigma to most of the people around her, often including herself. She is bright and spontaneous most of the time but can become somber and serious at the drop of a hat. Her general mood and energy are frantic, high energy and unpredictable. When she comes to care about someone, she's incredibly protective of them to the extent that she can be and will do about anything to make them happy or keep them safe.

Deep down, Laci is frustrated with her inability to remember most of her human life and desperately wishes she could regain it -- however, most of her efforts are currently focused on preventing the Awakening of a being she knows only as The Myriad Eyes, which Laci believes will cause the end of the world if it does wake from it's slumber. Her methods of doing so are...erratic and often nonsensical due to her lack of general knowledge about the thing, seeing only glimpses of it through her precognition and sight.

Little Laci: Mostly the same as Big Laci (described above) but less able to focus on her goals, more dependent on others and more emotional.

-In Love: Laci can't remember being in love. She knows vaguely that she was dating someone who had broken up with her just before she became a vampire but more than that is blurry. When she does crush on someone (which is rare) she's usually very shy around them, having difficulty speaking and becoming very awkward (think moe anime girl)

-Under Stress: Erratic, irritable and far more emotional than usual. Laci becomes inconsolably upset when under stress very quickly -- prone to lashing out in anger and having complete breaks from reality of the stress is severe enough. Stress is also the number one trigger for Laci's age regression, the more intense the stress, the further back she slides.

-Alone: Laci doesn't really get to be alone due to being haunted by her best friend as a human who she accidentally killed after her Change...When it's just Laci and Amy, Laci can be very quiet and withdrawn, just focusing on whatever task is at hand and desperately hoping Amy doesn't decide to cause any problems.

Life

Best Memory: Becoming part of the Revenant Vampire Community under Santa Marta

Worst Memory: Waking up after being Changed and killing her best friend.

Biggest Accomplishment: Hitting 100 cellphones stolen from assholes at Eventide Coffee

Prized Possession: her spiderweb mug

Favorite Color: Black, Purple, Lime Green

Favorite Food:

-Mortal Food: Mocha Frappe, Triple Chocolate Muffins, Cherry Soda, Monster Energy, Tiramisu, Fried Oreos

-Blood: She doesn't care, all the bagged stuff tastes like shit anyway.

Favorite Scents: Cloves, Cotton Candy, Bubblegum, Gunpowder, Fresh Coffee, Freshly Baked Bread, Coconut, Vanilla, Lime, Grapefruit

Favorite Songs: Hunger - Ayria, The Girl Anachronism - Dresden Dolls, I'm So Sick - Flyleaf, Counting Bodies Like Sheep - A Perfect Circle, Looking Glass - The Birthday Massacre, Placebo Effect - Siouxsie and the Banshees, Amnesia - Mind.In.A.Box

Can’t Leave Home Without: Her phone, her cigarette case, a few packets of blood

History

Birthplace: Santa Marta, California

Childhood:: Laci can remember her fifth birthday where she had her first vision of the future and of the party being ended prematurely. She also remembers starting therapy at twelve.

Adolescence: Laci remembers her first day of middle school -- which went rather badly, remembers going to anti-prom and getting kicked out of her parents' house at 18.

Adulthood: What little Laci can remember of her adulthood, she was working as a barista at a local coffee shop while working with a group of friends on a local anarchist zine. She was dating one of the editors on the zine until he cheated on her and broke up with her on October 20th 1998. During a manic episode that followed, she cut her hair and bleached her bangs (with the intent of dyeing them purple). She and her best friend were kidnapped by a vampire outside a local goth club on Halloween.The vampire would turn Laci and leave Amy in the room with her to kill during her first feeding. The trauma of her change (which occurred fully within only three hours) and subsequently murdering her best friend seems to have induced age regression and severe amnesia in Laci. She cannot recall the name or appearance of her Sire or even the majority of her life, outside of small snippets from here and there.

Recent: Laci has been living in Santa Marta in the Revenant Community since they found her in 2002. It's not sure if she's actually part of the Revenant bloodline or not but they don't really care about that. She's got a small apartment in Bram Park, not far from the Sidetracks bar, which contains one of the main entrances to the Underground.

Relationships

Family: Sanity (Adopted Sister, a fellow vampire)

Lovers: None

Friends: Art ??? (a local hacker and vampire), Alex Hyde (Revenant Vampire, clubbing and goth buddy), Louis DeFantome (Siren Vampire, local goth artist), Maggie Rodriguez (Local Witch)

Enemies: Amy (Ghost, haunting), Ella DuChamps (Local cultist), The Myriad Eyes (???)

Acquaintances: ???

Resources

Income: Working Poor

Vehicles: None

Residences: A 1br/1ba apartment in the attic of a Victorian house that's been converted into a triplex in the Bram Park neighborhood.

[bluesfortheredj]

Grease lightning.

Smut ahead.

Costumes. They were your thing, you’d be the first person your friends would go to if their child needed something made up for a school play or even for a prom, and you loved it. Your imagination could run wild most of the time, especially when it was something obscure like a pirate donkey; you weren’t exactly sure where the pirate donkey came in to the nativity, but it was one of your best costumes to date so you happily went along with it. Now it was your chance to recreate something, with a slight twist of your own of course, and the theme of the party you and Taron had been invited to was the film Grease. You’d already decided upon what you’d do for Taron; he was the perfect Danny and you’d got a nice pair of slim fitting black trousers that you were going to add a leopard print side stripe to along with a leather jacket that you had plenty of studs and chains to add embellishment with.

“Turn around,” you instruct as you pin things in place on the jacket, making sure they looked in the correct position before sewing anything down securely, “hmm, yeah, not bad at all!”

“Well thank you very much,” he winks as he turns back to you.

“I do have a thing for men in leather...”

“I didn’t know that,” he frowns, “since when did that start?!”

“Oh, before I met you. You can blame Sons of Anarchy for that one,” you laugh.

“Now all I need is a motorbike...”

“Mhmm,” you hum as you look him up and down with your lower lip firmly between your teeth.

“Stop that, or I’ll never get to the corner shop before it closes and we desperately need milk!” Taron says as he quickly shrugs the jacket off and hands it back to you.

“Stop what?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he replies sternly, “you know what that does to me.”

“Oops, I forgot,” you shrug, winding him up even more.

“That’s it, I’m going to the shop. See you soon.”

You enjoyed the power that the lip bite had over him, especially when you knew exactly how to work him up over it, and it had been a couple of weeks since you were last intimate so it was about time you had a bit of a tension releasing romp. Putting his jacket to one side, you get the last bit of your costume and quickly sew up the remaining pinned seams before getting into it and awaiting Taron’s return. You then hastily sew the embellishments to his jacket and place it over the end of the banister at the bottom of the stairs so he could get into it before seeing you.

“Hey Taron?” you call out when you hear him open the front door.

“Yeah?”

“When you’ve put the milk away could you pop that jacket back on so I can see the finished product please?” you grin to yourself as you stand up in the closed off living room, smoothing down your Sandy inspired outfit as you wait for him to come in.

“Yeah, ‘course darling. Give me a minute.”

You hear his feet pad towards the kitchen after slipping his shoes off, then the fridge open and close with a cupboard following soon after, and finally he returns to the hall where he slides the jacket on and walks into the lounge to see you standing there in black wet look leggings, a studded belt, a low cut black vest top, and fingerless leather gloves with a chain edge to them.

“I… er… that’s what you’re wearing?” he stutters.

“Uh huh,” you nod, letting your top teeth glide over your bottom lip again as you take in the sight of him in the jacket.

“Well… that’s… bloody hell (Y/N), I swear… bite your lip once more, I dare you,” he challenges as his eyes wander to your face.

You meet his gaze as you open your mouth in slow motion and make the same movements again, bringing your lip between your teeth harder this time, then as he narrows his now darkened eyes at you, you raise an eyebrow and counter his dare with “what you gonna do about it, stud?”

He charges towards you, grabbing onto your upper arms as he pushes you into the wall behind and you let out a pained gasp as the light switch digs into your back, then his lips cover yours to shut you up and his tongue delves into your mouth as you try and catch up to his hasty actions. Your hands push the jacket out of the way so you can explore his cotton covered torso and he’s quick to shrug the jacket off before he tugs at your leggings, eventually having to break the kiss with an annoyed huff and pull them off your feet along with your underwear.

“Well sorry!” you giggle as he rolls his eyes and stands back up again.

“So you should be!” he scoffs, quickly burying two fingers inside you and pumping them slowly to get you ready for him.

“Oh shit,” you breathe heavily, your head tilting back and hitting it against the wall with a soft knock as your eyes close.

Taron presses soft kisses to your now exposed neck as he continues to ready you, then within a matter of seconds he replaces his fingers with his stiff length and your eyes fly open as your lips part to allow a long moan to escape. You earn a grin from him as he lifts one of your legs to rest your thigh against his hip, then he begins to thrust deep inside you while your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. The light switch on the wall is sure to leave a nasty mark on your back but the pain of that soon fades as the pleasure Taron’s giving you overrides any other feelings.

“You feel so good,” he groans as he squeezes his eyes shut briefly.

You manage to drag your fingers up his neck and to his cheeks so he can meet your stare then you guide his face towards so you can meet in a messy kiss; a teeth clashing, sloppy lipped kiss as you both shudder against the wall, his climax coming a lot quicker than yours. He doesn’t leave you without though, his thumb makes quick work over your hardened nub and you’re soon whispering his name against his neck and leaving your hot breath on his skin as you ride out your orgasm.

“You know what this means...” Taron begins as he helps you to the sofa and you both collapse in a heap on the cushions.

“What does it mean?” you ask breathlessly.

“We’re going to have to think of different outfits, because this can’t happen at a house party.”

“Haha! Oh dear, I’ll have to get thinking...” you laugh, lightly biting your lip.

“Don’t even start with that again,” Taron whispers, kissing you to stop the tempting act, “oh, how’s your back?”

“It was fine until you reminded me of it! Bloody hurts, but it was worth it.”

“bite your lip once more, i dare you” and “what you gonna do about it, stud” with Taron, pretty please? Your writing is seriously the best!

@crazedcatcuddler @aynsleywalker @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @lovemarvelousfics @lovemelikeyou1997 @godohammers @celine-wanderwall @lv7867 @nellietara @crazy-souless-demon @queenslandlover-93 @kurtis-conner

[freewithyourtempo]

Highschool cherik au firsts? Like first date, kiss, first time, etc.

Thank you for the prompt, anon!

Let’s start with first kiss…

Charles hisses. 

It isn’t as bad as it looks, he is sure. It is just that the sweat rolling down his temple and upper lip is dragging down the blood as well. The wound itself isn’t deep. Obviously.

That being said, did Alex have to aim so freaking high with his free-kick?

Charles shakes his head. He is being unjust: it wasn’t Alex’s fault, after all, but Charles’ own, who had been distracted by a very recognizable silhouette, shaped by the shadows under the bleachers.

Charles bites his lip and keeps on dabbing mercilessly at the cut at the angle of his mouth, which is now turning an ugly shade of purple. It stings like hell, the paper rough against his ruined skin, but he can’t bleed for the whole period. He has already missed half of it. He huffs.

He notices with a grimace that the piece of toilet paper in his hand is crimson-spotted and crumpled up. He throws it in the overflowing bin next to the door and tears another one from the roll he has wisely put on the sink. 

The soaked, muddy, unsanitary sink of a high school gym toilet, as clean as the bottom of his soccer-shoes. He will consider himself lucky if he doesn’t catch tuberculosis by the end of the day. 

In that moment, the door of the locker-room slams open, and Charles jumps.He stares dumbly at the newcomer, hand still mid-air, and blinks. He realizes with sinking horror that his reflection in the mirror is a mess, with smears of blood around his mouth and sweaty, messy hair stuck to his forehead and temples. He glances down at his soccer shorts, low on his hips and covered in brownish stains, and at his socks, rolled-up mid-calves. 

It looks like he has been dragged across a cricket pitch by his shoelaces. 

And, really, Charles isn’t attracted to bad guys. It would be predictable and so two-thousand and ten.

It isn’t the black leather jacket that does it for Charles, but the back that stretches it thin. It isn’t the cigarette, but the mouth enveloping it. It isn’t the piercing… Yeah, no. It definitely is the piercing. And the eye-liner. 

Erik Lehnsherr stops on the threshold of the locker-room and blinks at him, unsurprised to see him there, with the expression of perpetual boredom of an underpaid kindergarten teacher who has to explain to you for the third time why you shouldn’t shove mud in your mouth.

Charles doesn’t take it personally: he shares a few glorious classes with Lehnsherr’s unpredictable moods, and that seems to be the expression that inconveniences him the least to be seen wearing. That, and the smile he hides with a twist of his lips every time a professor mistakes his boredom for incapacity to follow their lesson. 

Not taking his eyes off of him, Lehnsherr orientates the cigarette dangling from his lips towards the lighter in his left hand. A sparkle, and the tip turns instantly red-hot. 

Lehnsherr’s cheeks are momentarily sucked into his mouth, and Charles finds himself as a guest in the control room of his vocal cords.“You can’t smoke in here,” he says. And pursues his lips for good measure, which means that a fat drop of blood happily slides down his chin. He slaps a piece of paper on the wound. Sexy. Lehnsherr predictably rolls his eyes - God, his silver piercing dances so prettily on his eyebrow - and leaves with no comment. A cloud of smoke signals his departure.

Charles clenches his jaw and decides that, once he will be tucked in his bed this night, banging his head into the mattress, he will blame his stupidity on the blood-loss.

Charles isn’t into bad boys, but who could resist a daily assault of one Erik Lehnsherr hitting the brakes of his big bike in the principal’s parking spot, then proceeding to take off his full-face helmet, neck bent backward and long throat bared under the sun.           When his jeans-clad thighs release the saddle from their relentless grip, Charles can literally see the leather decompress. 

There’s a limit to what a boy can endure. And Charles’ limit, specifically, is fingerless, leather gloves that squeak under Lehnsherr’s sharp teeth when he unfastens them right before getting to the blackboard and proving a mathematical theorem in three steps.

Charles feels sympathetic: he would squeak too. 

It isn’t a “he doesn’t even know I exist” type of situation, as Charles would prefer. Lehnsherr, unfortunately, knows who Charles is, and on one particularly memorable occasion, they were even paired up for an Art project.

Charles had been more or less (he hoped less) evidently bursting out of his skin, but if his deep frown had been any indication, Lehnsherr hadn’t shared his excitement. The ring on his eyebrow had almost touched his cheekbone for the whole duration of their professor’s speech about how he would have to mark only half of the essays that way. 

But the more Lehnsherr had glared at him - a sight that had given Charles goosebumps -, the more Mr. Howlett’s grin had grown satisfied.That particular staring contest was therefore won by the latter.

One afternoon in the library and the research had been completed, despite Charles’ attempt at miniating the bibliography and taking coffee breaks.Lehnsherr had been even more brooding than usual, content to just swing on two of his chair’s legs, play with his lighter and shoot Charles weird looks every other minute.

And Charles had done what he always does when the silence gets too heavy: he had talked. And talked. And waved his hands. He had only stopped blaring away when he had noticed Lehnsherr staring intently at him from the other side of the table.Damn.

The bleeding has thankfully stopped and he has just washed his face when something falls on the sink right next to him, and Charles jumps again. “Would you please stop doing that?”, he complains, and turns off the tap. Lehnsherr has come back undetected, and his hip is propped up against the sink. His cigarette, still impenitently fuming between his lips, is now noticeably shorter than before. He stares at him. Charles blinks.After a few moments of silence, Lehnsherr exhales an exasperated puff of smoke and nods pointedly at the first aid kit he has just dropped between them.Charles slowly reaches out and unzips it under Lehnsherr’s scrutiny, suspicious. He looks for the green lid of the hydrogen peroxide’s bottle and is about to open it. 

He doesn’t have the chance to do that.

Lehnsherr curses under his breath, squashes his cigarette into the sink to put it out and pries the bottle out of Charles’ hands. Still mumbling what sounds like words of incredulity, he chooses another bottle from the first aid kit and brusquely wets some cotton wool red. Then he reaches for Charles’ face.

Charles steps back, hands up in a defensive stance. He’s not sure it would be a good idea to have him closer and actively touching him. Lehnsherr tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow. And steps forward.

He smells of smoke, and leather, and of something else rich and full that goes for Charles’ throat and squeezes. 

Charles swallows and takes a deep breath to untie his back. He reaches out to grab the cotton wool, hand unsteady and slightly shaking, but Lehnsherr is faster. He bats Charles’ hand away and gently cups his chin in the same movement. Charles’ eyes widen, but his head obeys like putty and is turned to expose the injury. 

Charles is very, very aware of every finger holding his face, but he’s especially wary of the thumb, hovering above his lower lip. He can almost feel its warmth projecting onto his skin. He goes still like a rabbit in the torchlight. 

Lehnsherr shifts slowly, carefully, his eyes flickering for a moment to Charles’ face, and bows in half to inspect his mouth. 

There’s warm breath tickling his cheek now, and this is a position Charles never would have thought he could find himself in, not in a million years, not in his wildest dreams. Maybe the ball has knocked him out.

Lehnsherr’s eyeliner is smudged and glues together two of his eye-lashes. If the hairs of his short beard were to brush his chin, Charles’ soul would spiritually leave his body. 

He tightens his hold around the edge of the sink. 

His heartbeat is so fast his heart is vibrating under Lehnsherr’s delicate fingers, and he tries to focus on the cheap decoration of the tiles on the other side of the room. Don’t think about leather gloves.One orange triangle, breathe in, one blue triangle, breathe out, one orange triangle, breathe in, one blue triangle…Then his vision shifts.He lets out a sudden shout as he is lifted and dropped unceremoniously on the sink. It feels shockingly hard and cold through his flimsy shorts. 

Lehnsherr nudges Charles’ knees open to make room for his own body between them, and Charles is ashamed of how easily they move under Lehnsherr’s guidance to welcome him. He spreads his legs as wide as possible to avoid any kind of contact between rough jeans and naked skin. 

Charles stares into Lehnsherr’s electric eyes, frozen like a puppet waiting to be dropped. A hand slides unashamedly from his hips to his thigh, which is now cold below and hot on top. And bare, bare as it has never been before. 

A rough palm starts to trace the outline of Charles’ knee in calming circles. At least, Charles thinks they are meant to be calming. 

Charles isn’t calm. In fact, he can feel himself redden and fry under Lehnsherr’s amused stare, now right in his line of sight.He starts sputtering, and feels his wound stretch at every word. “Really, my friend, this is quite unnecessary. I’m sure, perfectly sure I can do it  myself.”Lehnsherr huffs in disagreement. “No reason to do all of this. I thank you for your concern-”Lehnsherr growls in warning, probably because the wound has started bleeding again. “You’re probably missing out on your lessons and-” Lehnsherr kisses him. 

It is quick, little more than a press of lips, hot, dry lips that embrace his mouth, and so very gentle. Charles is so astonished he doesn’t even close his eyes, simply gapes like a fish on a hook. His mouth starts fizzing and pulsing for a whole different reason, now, as if marked with fire.

When Lehnsherr steps back, Charles is so caught up he leans in and almost falls off the sink. He is saved by a very firm hand pressing a piece of cotton wool against his mouth and pushing him back.

Regained his balance, Charles lifts his eyes to look up at Lehnsherr’s face. 

He’s not smirking, but his mouth is disclosed. His eyes are elsewhere and terribly intense at the same time. And he’s… Blushing?

Charles opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Lehnsherr steps back and flees the room before he can emit a sound.

*** 

Charles hasn’t told anyone yet.Firstly, because he is sure no one would believe him.Secondly, because he doesn’t believe it himself.It just doesn’t make any sense. Someone like Erik Lehnsherr shouldn’t even look twice in his direction, let alone kiss him.Charles is a blubbering mess with a knack for cardigans. Don’t get him wrong, he is proud of who he is. But who he is is most certainly not Erik Lehnsherr’s type. Type of victim, yes, maybe. Type of boyfriend, unlikely. Charles is more some nice girl’s type, with golden hair and a Bronte’s novel on her nightstand. 

Maybe he did kiss him just to shut him up. 

Sure, a “shut your mouth” could have been equally efficient, but Lehnsherr is not exactly known for his loquaciousness.  

And what was he even doing in that locker room, anyway? 

So, Charles hasn’t told anyone, and hasn’t planned to do so in the near future. Until English Literature on Friday. 

He’s minding his own business when-

No, that’s a lie. He isn’t minding his own business, he is minding Erik Lehnsherr’s business. Specifically, the business that keeps him from being sat at his usual spot in the classroom.

Charles is staring at his desk like a middle-distance runner waiting for the gunshot to sprint. Sprint where, he doesn’t know. Maybe out of the window, because the mere thought of Erik Lehnsherr stir-fries his blood, and he doesn’t dare think what would happen if he actually saw him crossing that threshold.

That’s why, when Emma Frost leans against his desk that Friday morning, and asks, with her usual air of polite casualness, what happened to his mouth, he blurts out: “Lehnsherr kissed me.”

Emma stops scrolling through her phone and actually looks at him. 

Now, Emma Frost is Lehnsherr’s type: tall, sharp-minded and silver-tongued enough to get away with anything. She’s the kind of girl one thinks about when in need to cast a new Charlie’s Angels movie. 

Their prole would have a set of chromosomes to die for.

The thought inexplicably saddens him.

An excited, conspiratory smile spreads on Emma’s face, and she stretches on his desk to half-whisper. “You mean your first kiss with Lehnsherr has been so wild he broke your lip?" 

"Wh-what? No! No, no, no. No. No!" 

"Oh.” Emma pursues her lips in blatant disappointment. “A pity.”

Charles frowns. “Why aren’t you surprised? Erik Lehnsherr kissed me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that. Congrats, he’s hot!" 

"He’s not hot, he’s the hottest thing to ever set foot in the district since that Bunsen burner’s explosion in the chemistry laboratory three years ago!” Charles hisses. “Why me? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe he wanted to make fun of me.” His eyes widen in horror. “Maybe he wanted to humiliate me. You are his friend, what do you think?" 

Emma slowly straightens and looks at him with an unreadable but serious expression. She opens her mouth under Charles’ feverish stare, then closes it. "You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmurs to herself. Then raising her voice, “listen, Charles, I don’t know what makes you think he would-”

The arrival of the professor cuts her sentence in a half, and Charles never gets to know what Lehnsherr wouldn’t do, because at the end of the lesson Emma flees the classroom.

***

“Erik Magnus Lehnsherr!" 

Erik grimaces and shoves a cigarette into his mouth even before getting off his bike. This conversation is not going to be pleasant. 

He looks to the left and sees Emma Frost stomping in his direction, stabbing the ground with her heels and throwing daggers with her eyes. 

This conversation isn’t going to be pleasant at all. 

She stops next to his bike, hands imperiously on her hips and demanding eyebrows up in the middle of her forehead. Erik lights up the cigarette and exhales a puff of smoke in her direction, just to rile her up. "What’s up, love?" 

Emma glares. "Don’t you what’s up love me! I have just talked with Charles Xavier.”

Erik averts his eyes and fights down the blush that is threatening to crawl up his neck. He straightens the collar of his leather jacket. 

Getting to know Charles Xavier has been like craving a black coffee and being pawned by the Starbucks’ employee a seasonal pumpkin-spice frappuccino instead, only to bring yourself to drink it and begrudgingly finding it delicious, soft on the tongue and addicting.

Erik drinks bitter, uncorrupted coffee, not sugary hybrids that never stop blubbering intelligent nonsense with cherry-red lips.

He fixes the mirrors of his motorcycle, which don’t need any fixing, and emits a carefully uncaring mmmh.

Because he doesn’t care. 

At all. 

Everyone fucking loves Charles Xavier, but Erik intends to resist. He will not yield to messy curls, disarming smiles and eyes that are blue and kind but sometimes flash with cunning humor and suck you into a parallel universe where Charles Xavier could really be looking at Erik Lehnsherr like that. 

Emma smacks her lips and folds her arms, too satisfied with his reaction for Erik’s comfort. “Don’t try that bad-boy bullshit on me, Lehnsherr. I can see you blushing from here.”

Erik growls but doesn’t try to deny it. It would be useless.

“He says you’ve kissed him.”

Erik rubs the back of his cigarette on his lower lip. “I didn’t take him for one who kisses and tell.”

Emma acts like she hasn’t heard. “What I don’t understand is why he would think you did it to make fun of him.”

Before he can think better of it, Erik’s head snaps up. He must have inhaled abruptly, too, because there’s smoke in his throat and he starts coughing.

Emma smirks and Erik hates her a little bit. “Why would he-”

“Yeah,” Emma interjects forcefully. “That’s what I was about to ask him, too. Why would he ever think that?” She puts her perfectly manicured hand on her chin to mimic someone deep in thought. Then she just as unnervingly brights up as if she’s had a revelation. “Oh, yes! Because you’re an emotionally constipated punk who probably jumped on him in a dark alley and then ran away without a word. Am I right?”

Erik clenches his jaw and glares, but Emma doesn’t budge. She bats her eyelashes.

“It was the locker-room, actually.”

Emma springs towards him, and for a moment Erik is convinced she’s going to strangle him. She stops just as abruptly, instead, and looks at him with fire in her eyes. “You’re… unbelievable! Why would you do something like that? I know you like him.”

Erik doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know what to say. Or he knows, but it’s too much and he doesn’t want to. He falls back onto his bike and flicks away the remnant of his cigarette.

“You didn’t-,” she twists her hands, and looks actually hesitant for the first time in this conversation. “I know he’s nerdish, and clumsy, and talks. A lot. And he’s like… The furthest thing one would imagine from your type. But he’s so sweet, and bright… You didn’t do it to make fun of him, right?”

Erik stares at her for a few moments, chest heavy. He opens and closes his mouth a dozen times. And then.“To make- To make fun of him?” He jumps off the saddle of his bike and starts waving his arms around like a stressed-out windmill. “How could kissing the boy I’ve had a crush on for years ever qualify as making fun of him? It just happened, all right? He was so pretty, and so messy, all alone in that locker room and with a split lip. And he was about to use the freaking hydrogen peroxide to clean it. But I kissed him like an idiot and didn’t know what to say. So I ran away! And now I can’t even face him because I am the creeper who has assaulted him in the school locker-room!”

When he stops shouting, he realizes he’s panting. Emma is staring at him with wide eyes. Erik clears his throat and straightens his back. His face is hot; he’s not sure if it’s due to the anger or the embarrassment, but he feels twitchy all over. He tries to light up another cigarette, but his hand trembles and he has no control over his thumb. He throws everything on the ground and massages the root of his nose.

Emma takes a step towards him. “A split lip, mh?” she comments, and there’s gentle humor in her voice, so Erik lifts his head from his hand just as she says: “Kinky.”

He snorts. “It’s the librarian attire that turns me on, actually.”

Emma chuckles, then sighs. “You should tell him, you know? You’ve been astonishingly stupid, but the only thing that has bothered Charles about that kiss is the fact that it ended.”

Erik bites his lower lip, mainly to hide his erupting smile. He’s not successful. “You really think so?”

“Yes, stupid.” She rolls her eyes and amicably hits him on the shoulder. “I really think so. That kid is head over heels for you as much as you’re for him.“

Erik tries to be dignified even if his face is splitting at the height of his mouth."Head over heels is maybe a bit much…” “Oh,” says Emma delicately, eyebrow risen. “If you’re not that interested, maybe I could try my chances with-”

Erik’s throat tightens and he shows his teeth to hiss. Emma just laughs at him.

***

Emma knows three things for certain:

One, there’s nothing you can’t do in heels;

Two, white will never go out of style;

Three, power is a question of paying attention to the right things.

That’s why, that morning, she’s rocking high boots, wearing white cashmere and ignoring Azazel’s gross attempts at flirting in favor of keeping an eye on Charles Xavier on the other end of the corridor.

She can see his mop of chocolate hair fumbling tirelessly in his locker, until he freezes. 

Emma smiles. 

There’s an unmistakable roar of engines approaching the school. It lasts a few moments, then it is abruptly cut off.

Emma can see Charles’ nape redden, and knows that he, too, is counting the seconds.

Erik Lehnsherr, the asshole, makes his entrance as loud as possible. The door slams on the opposite wall and the sole of his combat boots scratches against the floor at each step.

Everyone in the hall turns and stares for a moment. When the students resume their buzzing, their eyes seem to keep sliding sideways. 

Charles tries to not-so discreetly glance over his shoulder. Emma can pinpoint with millisecond accuracy the moment he notices Erik’s leather trousers, because his face flares up and his mouth swings open. He turns around again and stays very still, facing his locker, back rigid. 

Emma chuckles behind her hand.

Erik is frowning, his eyes thunderous. He looks around for a bit, then he patently zeroes in on Charles’ figure and his frown deepens. He tightens his jaw and starts marching forward. The corridor is crowded, but no one dares to be on Lehnsherr’s path when he’s clearly in a foul mood.

Poor boy, Emma thinks. It’s not his fault if his sentimentally crashed face is also his angry face. 

He stops right behind Charles, clenches and unclenches his fists, shifts from one foot to the other.

Charles turns around, slowly. He blinks his eyes open wide, and they are very big and very blue.He squeezes his books against his chest and forcibly removes his gaze from Erik’s thighs. “Yes?”

Emma bites down on her lower lip and almost squirms. Come on, come on, come on. She’s so patently distracted that Azazel takes his eyes off her cleavage long enough to focus on what has drawn her attention.  

Erik takes a deep breath that puffs up his leather jacket. He opens his mouth and mumbles something that has Charles gaping. Then closes it. He shakes his head and withdraws it into his shoulder. When he steps back, Charles’ hand outlines a jerky movement. 

Emma grabs Azazel’s arm and sinks her nails into his skin. He wails.

In that moment, the door of the classroom next to Erik flies open and bumps into his back, then gets stuck. Erik is forced to step forward to keep his balance, and glares dangerously over his shoulder.Mr. Howlett stumbles out of his classroom, almost invisible behind the gigantic toothpick-diorama of a half crumbled Eiffel Tower he’s carrying.

Emma notices with horror that he has a cigar in his mouth, and it is seeding red-hot ashes all over the floor. There’s an alarming smell of smoke coming from that class. 

Mr. Howlett stops on the threshold, deliberates for a moment and decides there isn’t enough room to get through. He gains momentum and pushes the door wide open with a tremendous shove of his whole weight.

The door gets unstuck with a rattling sound, vibrates and goes flying against Erik. Again.

This time, the impact sends him crashing into Charles with a bottomless thud.

They stumble into one another in a mess of limbs, knock their foreheads together and almost deform the locker they fall into. 

The show ends with a loud groan and the splat of Charles’ books on the ground.

Azazel, who has the social receptiveness of a sweaty sock, takes the opportunity and chants: “Fight fight fight!”

Half the students in the hall enthusiastically join him. 

Emma downs her head into her palm.

Mr. Howlett patently ignores the mess he has caused, exhales two puffs of smoke in quick succession, smirks and turns away as if nothing happened.

Erik and Charles are frozen in place, Erik’s hands on either side of Charles’ head and flat against the locker. His leather jacket has ridden up his back, leaving a naked strip of skin exposed. Charles’ arms have flown forward and are now hanging between their chests, unsure of where they should rest. His fingers finally grab Erik’s waist to keep him steady, just to realise they are digging into soft skin and not into rough leather and squirt away as if burned.

Erik’s nape is red, Charles’ face is crimson and their chests are heavy.

If Azazel doesn’t stop the chorus of blood-thirsty imbeciles, Emma is going to crush his foot with her heel. She has just risen her boot, when silence dawns on the hall.

She snaps her head up and almost squeals.

Charles’ arms are locked behind Erik’s neck to drag him down into his reach, his eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is pressed against Erik’s, lips tight. His blush hasn’t receded a bit, and seems to spread on his skin like wine on a white tablecloth. 

Erik is unresponsive for a few moments, eyes gaping in place of his mouth. The he jolts awake.

He wraps his longs arms around Charles’ waist and holds him tight against his chest.

Azazel twists his lips, shrugs, and prompts another chorus. A moment later, the hall is chanting: “Kiss kiss kiss!" 

[raphaelshusband]

7 super abilities that help Raphael Santiago to love Simon Lewis | saphael one shot

Crossover Shadowhunters x Boku no Hero Academia

Super hearing

Raphael felt as if his head was about to explode. He heard all the voices in the corridor, in the rooms next door, and in the rooms across his room. He put the pillow over his head when he heard footsteps. The person was walking towards him.

"Rapha!" There was a beautiful and clear voice.

"Lewis," he grunted, hiding his face in the pillow.

"Oh, Rapha! We've been together for two months, you know my name!"

"Stop screeching," he growled. He felt the quilt slide off him and someone was lifting him away from the bed. The quirk of his boyfriend was the possibility of lengthening the hair by a good few meters, which turned into guitar strings.

"Let me go, Simon," he murmured, looking at Lewis, who looked like Rapunzel at that moment.

"It's time to practice, c'mon!"

"Stop screaming" he hissed.

"Sensitive hearing, huh?" he bared his teeth in a smile.

"Simon, I haven't slept all night, I'm tired" the brown-eyed didn't seem to listen to him, just left the room. Raphael was struck by harsh light. "Lewis, bring me back" looked down at the boy's head. They must have looked comical, and he felt like a balloon. Simon was already dressed in his school jumpsuit and Santiago was still in a white T-shirt and black shorts.

"You know well it's time to get up. Don't whine," he said seriously.

"I don't understand why I'm with you" Raphael lowered his head.

"Because you love me."

"Idiota."

 Super eyesight

"I can not see!"

"Turn left."

"What?" Raphael heard a crack.

"I told you to turn left" Simon started rubbing his head. The black-haired grabbed his hand and started to drag him.. They both got lost in the forest during the competition and the endless night had come and they were still circling among the trees. Santiago was sure that the rest of the participants had already started looking for them.

He felt the boy's hand begin to shake and sweat.

"Are you afraid?" He asked with a sly smirk.

"What? No! I want to be a super hero! I'm not afraid of.. dark!" he shouted. "Maybe a little.."

"Stop yelling, I'm leading us out of here."

"Do you know where we are at all?"

"No. But I'll try to get us out of here as soon as possible. Watch your feet."

"I can barely see the tip of my nose and I have to watch my feet?"

"Your eyesight should adjust right away."

"It won't be as sharp as yours, vampire."

"Don't call me that," he rolled his eyes.

"But that's what your quirk is called, isn't it?"

"I don't call you a guitar."

"Will you stop being so stiff?" 

"I'm not stiff. Watch out, a root" Lewis stumbled anyway. "Dios."

They didn't know how much time had passed. It got very cold, and Simon was shivering, his teeth chattering. It felt like they were walking forever.

"I'm tired," he groaned. Raphael put his arm around him. "Are you cold?"

"A little.." Raphael took off his katana and threw it over the boy's shoulders. "What about you? Won't you get cold?"

"I will endure," Santiago replied. After a few minutes, he saw a blue flame. "Bane's there. We are close."

"Raphael! Simon! You are here!" Magnus shouted. Santiago pulled a leaf out of his hair.

"We're alive," he grunted.

"W.. we got lost.." Simon began to explain.

"You will be confessing to Professor Garroway. I didn't know you had such a poor orientation in the field, Raph," Magnus smacked him friendlyly on the back of the head, forgetting the flame.

Raphael screamed.

 Acute smell

Raphael was breathing heavily, his legs felt like cotton wool. He walked between the pieces of rubble, unearthing it.

"Raphael!" He heard a female voice. Clary Fray was running towards him. "We lost Simon!" Santiago froze. He clenched his hands into fists, the skin of his fingerless gloves creaking.

"Where was the last time?" He asked as he followed her. She pointed to the spot next to Magnus Bane and three Lightwoods.

Raphael took a deep breath and coughed.

"Dios, how did he get perfumed today," he choked out. He shook himself quickly and began to stride forward. "This way" he waved his hand. They entered the collapsing building.

"Are you sure it's here?"

"Si. I can feel him" he pressed the door handle, which immediately fell off. He sighed in exasperation and aimed a kick at the door, which fell with a crash. He squeezed his eyes shut. In his present state, the sound was extremely sharp.

"Lewis," he entered the room where Simon had become tangled with the strings against the window frame.

"Oh, Raphael! How good it is that you are!" he exclaimed embarrassed.

"Don't move now" he pulled a golden dagger from his belt and carefully placed it against the strings. Then he jerked it sharply toward himself. Simon dropped to the ground. "Idiota."

 Acute touch

"You're impossible," replied Simon, shoving a chocolate into Raphael's mouth

"I can feel anything, Simon. I could feel every tiny blood vessel under your skin if I want to. But I don't feel like it." Lewis chuckled as he put his hands under Raphael's shirt and ran them over the light lines of his muscles.

They were currently in Simon's room. Santiago was lying on the bed with a black blindfold over his eyes, and Lewis was straddling him.

The brown-eyed had gentle, smooth fingers. The Mexican felt a pleasant shiver. He felt his soft lips against his neck. The younger boy began to give little kisses, and the dark-eyed melted his fingers into Simon's fluffy hair. When they were not in the form of long strings, they were paradise.

He inhaled the scent of Simon, the bitter scent of perfume filling his nostrils.

"Stop perfuming yourself with that filth."

"You bought them for me," he murmured, leaving a red mark on his skin.

"I thought they smelled nice."

"You have a great sense of smell and you didn't know they smell nice?"

"I didn't smell them"

"Who buys perfumes and doesn't smell them?" He kissed the collarbone of the raven haired man.

"Don't judge me," he grunted. Brunet grabbed the older t-shirt and pulled it off.

"I don't understand why you had it on."

"As befits a normal person, I wear clothes."

"Don't spoil the moment of our first time."

"Callate" brown-eyed put the chocolate in his mouth. Raphael grabbed the back of his head, pressing their lips together in a kiss. At the same time, he took the chocolate.

"It was gross."

"You are gross" he replied chewing on the chocolate. Simon rolled his eyes and kissed him again.

 Acute taste

Simon sneezed as his hair shot out like a slingshot and the whole bed was covered with a sea of ​​strings. He took a few sips of cocoa, but then groaned in disappointment.

"I can't taste anything.." The Mexican lunged beside him, taking the cup from his hands and taking a few sips.

"Only thirty percent cocoa."

"You're not helping," he grunted.

"What can I help you with?" He raised one eyebrow and wound one of the strings around his finger, and it immediately fell apart. "I am taking care of you, that's definitely enough." Simon took his cup from him and flopped down on the pillows. He coughed and turned to the boy.

"How did you know how many percent cocoa there is?"

"Acute taste," he replied without taking his eyes off the phone. The brown-eyed grabbed his cheeks and pressed their lips together with a passionate kiss. Brunet made a muffled sound. Lewis licked his lower lip, and as Santiago opened his mouth slightly, their tongues began to fight a fierce battle. "You taste like caramel," he gasped.

 Super speed

They stood facing each other. They had to fight each other at the school tournament. Raphael was sure he could beat Lewis and throw him over the white rope. However, he was wrong.

Each of the quirks has its own physical properties and cannot be used forever.

When Simon attacked, in a split second he was out of reach in the year of the pitch.

"It's weird to fight like this not with you, but with your hair," he smiled slyly.

"You are fighting me" he attacked again. The dark-eyed dodged the blow again.

"Make an effort more" moved at the boy with supernatural speed, but to his surprise Simon stepped back at the last moment.

 Lewis seemed to be deliberately dealing blind blows. At times he missed Santiago by a millimeter.

The Mexican stood in the center, Simon in front of him. He was barely standing and breathing heavily. He used his limit.

Raphael decided not to give up and ran towards him, but fell to the sand. Lewis merely wrapped the strings around it and placed it gently outside the white line.

Simon Lewis won.

 Super strength

"Hey Raphael, can you .." Simon looked at him with surprise and horror in his eyes. Black-haired was holding three shopping nets in both hands without any effort. "I  wanted to ask you only for two .."

"I'll take them all," he replied, heading for the car.

"You definitely scare me at times."

"And many times I save your ass."

"Leave me alone."

[quillingyousoftly]

It Wasn’t Supposed to Be (Like This)

My entry for Rumrollins Week, day 1: Apology/Angst. Apology is only there if you squint. 

Warning for suicidal behavior.

After the Uprising, Brock builds a haven for himself and Jack.

It’s hard work in his state to ensure they’re safe and comfortable, to make sure Jack has everything he requires and could ever want, and not to forget his own needs in the process. His body reminds him, though, its ache begging for rest and comfort. It exhausts him and makes him run out of patience sometimes, but they manage.

Before the Uprising, Jack talked a lot about their imagined future—imagined, because they never expected it to come. He talked about a house with a white picket fence, the romantic he is, and a rose garden. A fireplace, and a fur rug lying in front of it on the polished floor. It would smell of the roses, freshly chopped wood, and Brock’s cooking. Brock added a vegetable patch and a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets to that fantasy.

Jack doesn’t talk anymore, and so he doesn’t say anything when Brock finds them a house with a white picket fence and a vegetable patch; he waits patiently in the driveway as Brock sneaks in to take care of its owners and doesn’t even twitch when Brock points out the fireplace and suggests buying that fur rug Jack had wanted. It’s frustrating, and he’s tired, so he parks Jack next to the nice leather couch and flops onto it to rest without uttering another word.

Later, he buys a rose and plants it in the garden, so Jack can have a small part of his dream come true. Just that light task has his burned body protesting, so he rests with Jack in the living room for a while, walking him through the plan for the day.

When he starts feeling better and peckish, he wheels Jack to the kitchen and cooks a simple meal for them. Watching Brock and the delicious smells starting to fill the air cause a smile to appear on Jack’s face for the first time since they found the house, and Brock smiles back in relief.

“That’s a good look on you,” he quips. “You should do that more often.”

The smile doesn’t quite fade away, and they eat their dinner in good enough moods Brock isn’t even salty about his meal having gone cold before he starts.

Then, he wheels Jack outside to show him the rose. The orange rays of the setting sun paint its white petals and Jack’s face that becomes somber at the sight. 

“Do you like the color?” Brock asks conversely. “I thought it was nice.”

Jack doesn’t react at first, but nods eventually, the sad look on his face contradicting that gesture. Brock sighs and crouches down in front of him, resting his hands on his blanket-covered knees and looking up to meet his gaze.

“Look, I know it’s hard. I know. I can’t do half the things I used to either.”

Jack glares at him, and this Brock understands; he’s pointing out he can still walk, talk, and use his hands.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Jack’s angry glare shifts to resignation, and he nods. Brock smiles, a little forced, and kisses him on his way up.

Everything has changed after the Uprising and not in the way they expected. They were supposed to rule the world, not be on the run from the law with both their bodies barely working. Even Jack’s kisses changed; they’re more desperate, more passionate, and he never turns away from them, even if he’s mad, perhaps because he can’t initiate them as often as he wants anymore. There’s something heartbreaking in the raw emotion he pours into them and in how he strains his neck to chase Brock’s lips even after he moves away.

“Let’s bathe,” Brock says. “Then we’ll go to bed and kiss some more, m’kay?”

The promise makes a small smile appear on Jack’s face, and it brings Brock both relief and a heartache.

Out of all the ways Brock has had to learn to take care of Jack, bathing is by far the easiest and the most pleasant. The hardest part is to lift Jack off the wheelchair and place him in the full tub. Brock still remembers the first time he actually picked up Jack, scooped him up in his arms in a bridal carry not out of necessity but because he was feeling romantic; he was heavy even back then when his body was fully able. Now he grunts when he lifts him, even though Jack has lost a lot of his muscle mass as well. Brock still trains when he can, but there’s no hiding he isn’t as strong as he used to.

The bath is big enough to fit both of them, and so Brock strips and fits himself between Jack’s legs. His body sends him contradicting signals; where he isn’t burned, the water is pleasantly warm, the more sensitive places read it as scalding hot, and the most scorched spots where his nerve endings burned away don’t feel the temperature at all. He waits for his skin to get used to the water, then leans back with a sigh and his eyes closed, letting his muscles relax.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Jack staring at him, and his old friend self-consciousness settles low in his stomach as he remembers how ugly he is now. His skin, once olive, now is full of waxy, charred, blistered, and red patches, dead spots where it won't stop peeling away. His body, once perfectly chiseled, is now that of a wimp. Jack, although disabled, hasn’t suffered the same amount of injuries, and looks mostly the same if a little smaller. His face is sharper, thinner, but not burned, and it has gained no new scars. The rest of his body is also untouched by fire, the bruises he had gotten from the rubble crushing him had long faded away and all that remains is the spine injury that left him paralyzed. Brock isn’t even sure if the rubble also damaged his vocal cords somehow or if his mutism is a mental response to the trauma. It isn’t like he breathed in hot fumes and swallowed sizzling engine oil that turned Brock’s voice gravelly and made it hard to speak sometimes.

Brock’s chest burns hot as he thinks how ugly the Uprising left him and how dependent on him it made Jack. Sometimes he wonders how many of Jack’s moods result from the frustration of not being able to move, and how many from the fact he’s now stuck with the boyfriend he can barely stand to look at. He can’t even afford to let Brock know he doesn’t want to be together anymore. Brock pretends he doesn’t suspect he would if he could, and they get by that way.

To turn his thoughts to something else, Brock reaches for the soap and lathers his hands to then gently rub Jack’s skin. His fingertips feel numb, but his palms were protected by his fingerless gloves and are just like they always were, one of the few mercies. Jack can’t feel his rough fingers, but Brock can feel the smoothness of the foam, the softness of his skin, the warmth of his body.

Jack watches him with an odd but not uncommon softness in his eyes as Brock washes him, the evidence of feelings still alight in his heart even if they’re for a memory and not the person Brock now is. Brock also remembers how they used to bathe together sometimes, and the things they did that were far from the innocent washing Brock’s doing now. He’s sure they both miss those times and the people they used to be back then, the love that was true and not a way to survive. 

Later, Brock wheels Jack to the bedroom and sets him down on the bed, arranging him securely on his side. 

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, making sure the pillow is fluffy enough. “Sorry I couldn’t be bothered to look for fresh sheets. But hey, at least I didn’t kill them in their beds so we’re not sleeping in their blood.”

Jack gives him a look, and Brock sighs.

“I wish I could read your thoughts.”

It’s apparently a wrong thing to say, because Jack drops his gaze. Brock doesn’t have the energy to try and figure out how to fix this, so he just ignores it. He flops onto the mattress next to Jack and arranges them both into a half-embrace; Jack can’t hold him properly anymore, but it’s still nice to feel the weight of his arm across his waist. Brock nudges his nose with his own.

“Hey, stop moping. I thought you wanted to kiss.”

Jack’s eyes are closed already when he reaches for Brock’s lips. Brock knows he’s imagining he’s kissing his old, handsome boyfriend who has energy, stamina, and a working dick. Brock can’t blame him; all he can do is to kiss him back like he still is that boyfriend.

At least Jack’s dick isn’t any more working than Brock’s so neither of them becomes frustrated.

*

Brock doesn’t feel rested when he wakes up, and each day is full of work; at this point, he’s sure he’ll only be given a chance to rest after he dies.

Jack is awake already, his thoughtful gaze fixed on a spot above Brock’s head, his arm still thrown haphazardly across his body. 

“Hello,” Brock says, his voice strained. He clears his throat, but it only makes it more sore and dry. “Slept well?”

Jack nods. Brock doesn’t dare ask him for how long he has been awake. How much time does he spend alone with his thoughts, unable to distract himself when Brock is resting or absent? No wonder he’s always so moody when those thoughts can’t be happy and optimistic.

Brock gets up to make coffee and breakfast; his skin is burning, so he forgoes clothes. After he feeds Jack and forces cold eggs down his throat, it’s time for Jack’s rehabilitation.

Brock doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but he’s sure it’s necessary. He consulted the internet on what he could do to help Jack, learned exercises for him from YouTube. He wishes he could do more; Jack deserves professional care, but it’s impossible—the Avengers are still tracking them, for fuck’s sake. In his thoughts, Brock curses Hydra, curses himself for believing in their shady propaganda, finally for recruiting Jack into it. If it wasn’t for Brock, he wouldn’t be stuck here, maybe he wouldn’t have been in that room with the Council on that fateful day, maybe he would have the time to flee from the crumbling building…

They’re both tired after the rehabilitation, so they rest in each other’s embrace again, and Brock doesn’t even wince at the sting of Jack’s sweaty skin sticking to his burned.

He picks himself up when he gets bored, sets Jack down in his wheelchair, covers him with a blanket and wheels him outside, rambling about working in the garden. 

“Remember how I said I’d give you a show on my hands and knees, covered in dirt?” Brock jokes, ignoring the pang in his chest saying no one would want to lay their eyes on him now, not to mention watch him. “Maybe some veggies are good for picking already, we could eat them for lunch.”

Brock expects Jack to glare at him for making him eat like a rabbit, but for once he doesn’t. He’s looking around the garden instead. It’s nothing much: a few shrubs, a lush green lawn, an apple tree, a small patch with cucumbers and carrots, and a glasshouse with tomato and pepper plants. In the center the rose is growing, the white of its petals blinding in the summer sun. Brock brings a watering can and helps Jack water his rose, then leaves him in the tree’s shadow. He returns inside for a moment to put on some clothes and a cap, and to turn on the radio so they can listen to it through the open backdoor. 

He only manages to weed and water the vegetable patch before the damaged skin of his arms begins to burn in the sun. He wipes sweat off his brow and decides to call it a day. His legs have cramped up a little from crouching, and he approaches Jack in a slow, unsteady gait. 

“Are you doing okay?” 

Jack nods, watching him with visible worry. 

“I’m fine,” Brock says, because the last thing he needs is Jack worrying about him. He has enough things to worry about. “A little fatigued, a little sore, you know how it is.”

Jack shakes his head in what Brock guesses is disapproval as he wheels him back inside. 

“I’m okay, I promise, but I need to rest. Did you enjoy the show at least?”

Jack’s lips break in a smirk at that, and he looks Brock up and down appreciatively. Brock’s face still warms under his gaze like it could be more than a fucking joke with how disfigured he is.

“Hopefully, the TV will have something nicer to look at.”

Brock sets Jack’s wheelchair next to the couch and flops down onto it. He doesn’t miss his sad look when he switches on the TV.

“I know,” he says, “I’ll read you a book when I catch my breath.” Hopefully, his eyes will stop stinging by then. He changes channels until he sees a movie just starting, some action flick he has never heard of before. “You okay watching this?”

Jack nods; the movie can’t be any good, but that’s exactly what Brock needs, to look at some cheap, terrible effects and turn off his brain.

“Are you okay? Do you want to lie down, or have a drink?”

Jack considers his question for a moment, but then shakes his head. 

*

They’re running out of anti-clotting shots.

Brock doesn’t tell Jack, but he can probably guess as much from how tight Brock’s face is when he’s giving him one and from the fact Brock hasn’t been on a medical supply run in a while. 

The worry doesn’t let him fall asleep, so he quietly digs out his gun from the nightstand drawer and leaves Jack’s side. He sneaks out of the bedroom and into the hall where he left the gun cleaning kit, and he takes it with him to the living room.

He hopes he won’t be forced to use the gun when breaking into a pharmacy at night, but he hasn’t cleaned it in a while, and he has nothing better to do at this hour. The silence in the big house feels oppressive, so he turns on the TV on a low volume. He works thoroughly and yet he doesn’t completely run out of the nervous energy filling him when he’s done. He leaves the lights and the TV on and returns to the bedroom to put the gun away before having a glass of wine to help him fall asleep. He takes a look at Jack when he enters—it’s a force of habit to check if he’s alright. He’s lying on his side facing the door like Brock has arranged him, and his eyes are open, fixed on the gun in Brock’s hand. Taken aback, Brock stops in his tracks.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” He raises the gun in a way of explanation. Jack’s eyes track the movement. “I couldn’t sleep, thought I’d clean it. I’ll have ta go on a supply run tomorrow night.”

Jack finally meets his gaze, but Brock can’t decipher the meaning behind it. He shrugs. 

“I’m sorry if it upset you. I’ll have a glass and join you.”

He takes a step towards his nightstand, but Jack’s eyes boring into him make him hesitate. Jack slowly looks away toward the gun still raised in Brock’s hand, then back to Brock, then back—

Brock’s blood runs cold when the realization of what Jack’s asking for dawns on him.

“No,” he says, his voice sharper than intended. “Never ask again.”

He reaches the nightstand in one stride and yanks the drawer open. He wants to throw the gun in, but years of training force him to lay it down gently. Then he closes the drawer, turns on his heel, and leaves the bedroom.

His hand shakes when pouring bourbon. It burns going down his throat, heats him up from the inside, like swallowing burning oil, but better. 

He stands at the window, but all he sees is his own reflection. His anger slowly evaporates as he’s sipping on his bourbon, leaving him in fear’s cold clutches. His knuckles go white as he clenches the glass, dries it, and on a bit unsteady legs, he returns to the bedroom. He wraps himself in a soft blanket that doesn’t irritate his skin like the itchy sheets and lies down next to Jack. He wraps one arm around his waist and presses himself close. Having adjusted to the darkness, he sees Jack’s eyes are closed, but he hasn’t been gone long enough for him to fall back asleep after what just happened.

“I can’t lose you,” Brock whispers, pulling Jack’s hair back. “I just can’t.”

Jack keeps pretending to sleep.

*

Brock starts breathing a little easier once he has raided a pharmacy, even when Jack becomes more moody and generally uncommunicative after what happened that fateful night. Brock finds he doesn’t care as much anymore—perhaps it’s the result of taking more painkillers than he used to, now that he has a seemingly endless supply.

Days pass fast and suddenly, they’ve been living in the house for a month, and Brock realizes they have become too comfortable. It’s a small town, and their neighbors grow more and more suspicious of them, asking when the actual owners are coming back from their ‘vacation’. The house begins to stink so much from the bodies shut down in the basement, no amount of Febreze can cover it up anymore. The Avengers are probably getting closer to finding them. They need to move again.

They spend their last day in the garden, Jack in the shadow next to his rose, and Brock working on the vegetables. He will miss it; who knows where they end up living next. Perhaps somebody’s forgotten basement or a stuffy one-room apartment.

The sun is setting already, but the air is still humid when Brock decides to call it a day. He walks over to Jack, who’s looking at the rose.

“It looks ready for cutting,” Brock says conversationally, lightly touching the rose’s opened corolla. “Wanna cut it?”

Jack stays still for so long, Brock’s about to drop the topic and wheel him back inside, but then he nods. Brock retrieves pruning shears from the shed and cuts the rose, leaving its stem long.

“Here you are.” He cuts off the thorns and rests the rose against Jack’s chest. “We’ll put it in the vase inside. Maybe we’ll even take it with us?”

Saying it, he already knows they won’t. They need to travel lightly, and the rose isn’t essential to their survival. Still, it’s a nice thought he supposes Jack would like to entertain.

Jack leans down, and at first Brock thinks it’s to smell the rose, but then he catches its stem just below the calyx between his teeth and strains his neck towards Brock, looking up at him meaningfully.

“Oh, it’s for me?” Brock takes the rose back absentmindedly, distracted by a rare smile blooming on Jack’s face. “It was always supposed to be for me, wasn’t it?” he realizes. “The entire rose garden you wanted.”

Jack nods, and as Brock stares into his eyes that are full of affection, he suddenly understands Jack still loves him. All this time, it’s been him who can’t stand the way he looks, not Jack. Jack doesn’t mind. Brock sighs, the weight in his chest making it hard to breathe, and crouches down, resting his hands against Jack’s knees. Jack follows him with his gaze. 

“Jackie.” Brock hesitates, the words he’s about to say almost impossible to force out of his mouth. But he needs to ask, because maybe Jack loves him, but he doesn’t love his life, and it’s unfair of Brock to force him to keep on living like this. His throat is tight when he finally manages to form the words. “Do you… wanna go to sleep?”

His eyes and throat burn, the pain spreads down his chest, and it’s like he’s drowning in scalding hot oil again. He blinks back tears as he watches Jack’s eyes widen as the meaning behind those words dawns on him. Brock’s heart stops as he waits for a response, his lungs ache from the lack of air, but Jack seems to be stupefied.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

The breath of relief Brock takes at that feels like a second life. He pulls himself onto his feet and presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek.

“Good,” he breathes, his voice failing him again. “That’s good. Let’s pack up then.”

As he wheels Jack back inside, he feels much, much lighter.

[magical-gays-au-fanartfunart]

Chitty Chitty Crash Bang Bang

Summary: Superhero AU- In which Virgil worries over Roman & we get to find out what happened to Remus.

Ships: Logicality and Prinxiety

Warnings: Yelling/Arguing, Parent/family.... issues, running away, brief physical violence, pain/injury (its like a Super reoccurring theme here), death mention, concussion mention/discussion, (Ro may or may not have lasting issues), roman’s pretty good at avoiding talk of doctors or like, anything, crying, probably poorly translated Spanish...

Tell me if anything else needs a warning!

Words: lots. (I give up.)

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - ^ - 8 -

-

They were yelling. The muffled sounds hardly discernible from his room. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it. Each shriek only made his stomach drop even more.

Stop yelling.

He should turn on his music.

Stop yelling.

He should do Something.

Stop yelling.

Shouldn’t he be down there? Playing mediator like he does far too often now.

Stop yelling stop it stop stop STOP.

A door slammed. Roman froze. Front door. Not a bedroom door. He scrambled up to look out his window. A figure with a well worn backpack and a stained, putrid green hoodie he’d always hated, stalked down the street, retreating from the house. It was like a weight was thrown on his chest.

Roman scrambled down the stairs.

“Let him go,” his mother yelled from the kitchen, voice stained with something close to tears.

Roman turned to look at her, frowning.

“He’ll come back, mijo. Let him blow off some steam.”

Roman curled his hand into a fist, shaking his head, not trusting himself to just get into a screaming match of his own. He darted out the door, slamming it behind him.

He vaguely registered his mother calling after him. She didn’t even call Remus back. She let him storm off and didn’t even- no no she was just mad. She was mad, he was mad, and people make dumb decisions when they’re mad.

His breaths slammed against his chest in time with his feet slamming against pavement. “Remus!”

Remus began to shift from a brisk walk to a full run. Roman raced to catch his brother- he was always just a bit faster than him, just enough. He had to be just fast enough. He had to. “Remus, stop!” He gripped the handle of Remus’s backpack and yanked.

His twin yelped as he was thrown backwards and narrowly missed being entirely thrown to the pavement. Roman huffed as he caught his breath, eyes wild and wide as he stared at his brother. His crying brother.

Remus ripped himself from Roman’s grasp, “Leave me the hell alone.” Remus huffed, voice scratchy and rough.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your damn business!” Remus all but screeched, shoving Roman back. “I don’t need you to play hero! I’m not the damsel in distress, get the hell out of my way!”

“I’m not trying to-” Remus’s fist collided with his jaw. Roman swore, slipping into a fighting stance out of instinct as he gingerly brushed over his tender jaw.

Remus’s breaths came in ragged and sharp. Fist curling in on itself, nails digging into his palm. “Don’t. Just. Don’t. Don’t follow me. Don’t pretend to be sorry. Don’t pretend I belong.”

He wished he’d protested.

That he’d followed him anyway.

That he’d punched that grim little smile right off his face.

Something.

Instead he just watched his brother shake his head and walk away. Instead, he stood there telling himself the same broken logic his mother had used. He’s gonna come back. He’s just gotta blow off some steam. He’ll be back. And it’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

-Now

2 years later.-

“Aw, you can call me Kate, no need for formalities! Hey, I’ll even take ‘Mom’ if you’d rather!”

“Mom,” Virgil hissed at the woman who looked exactly and nothing like her child with her brightly colored pink pixie cut and pastel sundress with a black punk jacket hanging on her shoulders, the shoulders and lapel adorned with a small trans flag patch, several buttons and a small gold floral pin. She shared her kind, tired eyes with her son, although she clearly had a few years of laugh lines on him. She was clearly taller than her child, and if she tugged him into a hug right then and there, Roman was sure Virgil would fit perfectly under her chin.

They fit. In their own odd way.

Roman smiled. It felt a bit easier to breathe for a moment.

Kate hummed, gaze flickering over the boy in front of her. She clicked her tongue, “Poor dear- Did anybody clean you up even a little? First thing you’re doing is taking a shower.”

Roman blinked, “Um-” He blinked a few times as Kate began to turn back towards her car.

“I hope you like pizza. Are you allergic to anything at all?”

"Um. No.”

”And what about milk?” Virgil said. There was a flicker of a glare in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by a smirk and a gentle shake of his head.

“That’s an intolerance, not an allergy.” Roman waved a hand dismissively, “Totally different!”

Mother and son made the same skeptical sound.

-

Roman really hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Really. It was just, after they settled in the car- He was exhausted. It was like a switch flipped after he sat down again. And watching the road flicker past was so calming. And Virgil was still talking to his mother, and he was already nodding off and really the only thing left was to let his heavy eyelids fall. He woke up to soft mummers and a gentle brush of a hand on his shoulder. Heavens, did everything hurt this much the first time around? His head was killing him.

“Hey,” Virgil whispered, and really, what business did he have being so gentle?

Roman’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He hummed in acknowledgement, eyes reluctant to open, it seemed. Or- oh wait. Never mind. He could see now. …Was that something he should like… be worried about?

“Up an’ at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty,” Virgil’s hushed voice continued, and Roman’s vaugely aware of pressure on his shoulders and a step down.

“Sorry,” Roman muttered, and he wasn’t exactly sure what for yet.

“I don’t mind. You can keep sleeping once we’re inside if you need to.”

Roman took in a breath and ended up nodding somewhere along the surprisingly short walk.

The next time Roman woke up from another dreamless state, he was smothered by a blanket far too heavy to be considered normal and it really wasn’t helping the process of waking up. There was a tap of a keyboard that seemed to echo around the room. Something was cold and wet on his head. The typing stopped. Virgil was putting back on fingerless gloves when Roman finally sat up and looked at him.

Roman blearily looked down at the cloth that had fallen off his head. “Oh.”

“You ‘kay?”

“No, I’m Roman,” he mumbled, lips flickering up a little.

Virgil rolled his eyes, settling on the edge of the bed.

“It’s really dark in here,” Roman whispered, without really meaning to.

“Good, ‘cause it’s apparently helpful for concussions and stuff,” Virgil whispered back, because that’s what you do.

“Oh so I got a concussion now?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Did you put up that black-out blanket for me then, or like, have you always been allergic to daylight?”

“You’ve discovered my secret,” a smile already on his lips, “I’m a vampire.”

“Well hell, here I thought you’d sparkle.”

Roman jumped a little as a creature hopped up from under the bed to onto it. The newcomer rubbed her body against Roman’s side. He froze, suddenly tense and unsure. Virgil’s eyes flickered over the other. He smiled, deciding to focus on his cat.

“Speaking of vampires,” Virgil snapped his fingers, and the cat pranced over to him, allowing him to pet her, “This is Buttercup.”

Roman nodded, watching them.

“How do you feel?” Virgil asked. The hushed tone still lingering in his voice. “For real.”

Roman shrugged, “More tired than I thought, I guess.”

He shifted and smiled as Buttercup passed back over towards him, purring loudly. “Hey lovely lady,” he whispered, rubbing the cat’s head. He glanced up at Virgil, “Sleeping in the car probably made every single bone in my body scream in protest, though.”

Virgil swore, “You don’t have any like-”

“Bleeding? Broken bones?” Roman placed a hand on his chest, leaning back into the pillows of the bed, (the cat following him down and standing on his chest) “Oof. Ouch. My bones.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, how would you know I’m not dead?”

Virgil shoved him in a way that was so gentle Roman wasn’t sure he actually touched him.

“Seriously, do we have to like, take you to a doctor?”

Roman shook his head, “I’m okay. I promise.”

“All you need is ‘(not)’ and you’ve got my favorite song.”

“Oh, you can’t be serious!” Roman makes an effort to sound affronted, and Virgil smiles like he holds all the secrets of the universe. Buttercup chirps, and the boys giggle, because the world’s just a little steadier now.

-

“It’s fine Dee! No, I don’t- I’m fine. Estoy bien! Oh my h- Sí claro! I’m staying over at a friend’s, ok?”

Roman raised his hand to mimic the ramble from the other end of the phone. Virgil smirked in return, despite his focus being on how Roman’s movements were a little more tired and sluggish than normal. He’s tired. He gets to be tired. Heck. He should be tired. Didn’t stop Virgil from worrying about it.

“Eres un pesado, ¿sabes que, sí?” Roman snorted, “What! I’m just saying- Yeah, I hate you too.” 

Virgil nestles his head into his arms on the table.

Roman sighs in defeat, and mimics Virgil’s posture, pouting as if to make a point to the other, “Ok, I will. Don’t kill anybody over it, I’d be terribly distraught-” Roman practically freezes.

He swallows, but it doesn’t clear the waver in his voice when he utters, “¿Qué?”

“What?” Virgil whispers, brows knitting together, leaning forward.

Roman glances up at Virgil and shakes his head, “No, Re- um. No. No creo que le vi.” Roman takes in a heavy breath, “¿p- por qué?”

An uneasy smile crosses Roman’s face and he nods, “Ok. Um- I better go, V- my friend’s mom promised to get us pizza. See you later, ok? I feel like I haven’t seen you for forever. Kay. Adiós.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nada, I-” Roman let out a huff of a breath, “Dee just wanted to know if I- saw somebody. It- It doesn’t really matter.”

Virgil shifts to sit up better, nodding, “Um, okay.”

Roman leans back, rubbing the nape of his neck, "What's the emo do on days like this anyway?" Virgil knows a subject change when he sees one, and he sighs, smiling, "I mean- what do you do? I don’t usually have- People. Over." Roman grins, “What’s your opinion on Disney?”

-

The speaker crackles on the other end of the line when it answers. “Hey DeeDee! Pleasure or Business?”

“I hope you have an explanation for yourself Remus.”

“Ah, skipping the pleasure going straight to business, I see how it is.”

Dee sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Where are you?”

“Where I always am DeeDee. Hanging with Choco and Loco, between Nowhere and Noneof Yourbuismess.”

A point is made with silence.

“Fine, fine. I’m in town.” The line crackles. A vague sound of movement, like the rustle of a bag, “Did you know Mama y Papa aren’t home?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Dee shifts the phone to his other ear, leaning to the side, “No idea.”

“Why you lyin!” Remus shouted into the speaker. Dee forced himself to relax his shoulders. Remus sighed exaggeratedly heavily into the phone, “Fine, don’t tell me. How long have they been out? I can’t imagine they’d leave their favorite son all by himself too long now.”

“Remus, do you know what happened?”

“Maybe,” the line crackled in a way that almost sounded like a giggle, “enlighten me.”

Dee leaned back against the door frame of his room, “That’s the clearest confession of guilt out of your mouth if I’ve ever heard it. You’re aware Roman could’ve gotten killed, yes?”

The line falls silent.

“Oh, nevermind, I’m sure you thought about it. What am I saying?” Dee glanced at his hands, checking his nails.

“Do you want to know what his new little power is or not?”

“So that’s what this was about,” Dee said, a gentle smirk crossing his face, “Please. Do inform me. It would be nice to know.”

[softjeon]

A second request for drabble game please (I will keep it to 2 and not be greedy!), would be yoonmin (or Yoongi x other member of choice if you don't like the pairing) and coffee shop AU; barista and regular customer who is very particular about their order. Thank you again my sweet dears! ^-^

— GENRE; fluff | — PAIRING; Yoongi x Jimin | — DISCLAIMER; none— Wordcount; 1,8k  — written with @cassiavioletblue 

Yoongi looked up with a frown when the door opened. It was icy outside and every time someone came in he felt the cold rush of air hitting him full force. The cotton uniform he was wearing did nothing to keep him warm and all he wanted to do was snuggle up with three layers of clothes and some hot tea at home. Before he could do that he would have to pass another 6 hours though. 

Yoongi suppressed a sigh and took the girls order. She was wearing a skirt and just looking at her made him feel cold - even though he wished he could snatch her cozy scarf away or the fingerless gloves she was wearing. Apparently he had zoned out a little while dreaming of knitwear and warmth because only someone clearing his throat brought him back to earth. he flinched a little when he saw that it was a regular customer that he had ignored. 

“Oh, I’m.. I’m sorry!” He quickly apologized. He straightened himself with flaming cheeks and tried to be professional again. ”Will it be the usual?”

The young man with the washed out pink hair nodded his head, “Yes, don’t forget the one and a half scoop of sugar though.” He bit his lip, cheeks blushing in a light rosé color when Jimin saw the smile on the baristas face. Although he was here often, not many of the workers here got his order right, or thought of it as weird. In his opinion, he was just really particular about how he liked his coffee. “Half of the strong coffee and half of the usual, please and…”

“I know, I know!” Yoongi chuckled. He had said ‘the usual’ because it was way shorter than repeating what Jimin had said to him the first time he had been here. Yoongi had blinked at him in confusion, pretty sure that the other was joking or doing some silly dare. However he came back two days later to order the same. And the same after that. “It’s half a cup of coffee, the strong brew and the one with the mild taste mixed together. It’s one and a half spoon of sugar, level ones, not heaped spoonfuls. it’s one pump of vanilla syrup, the sugar free stuff and 100 ml hazelnut milk, the organic one. The rest of the cup will be filled with fresh water. As I said: the usual.” He winked at him cheekily.

Jimin’s smile grew even brighter, when Yoongi was listing down all the ingredients that made the perfect cup of coffee in his opinion. “Thank you,” He mumbled and moved along to the side, while the barista turned his back on him and started doing exactly what he had listed only moments ago. On days, where Yoongi wasn’t working, Jimin always had to interfere to make sure it was done right, but with him – it was much easier. He still observed how he was preparing his coffee closely, but he did it way more relaxed.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Jimin said softly, glad there weren’t many people in the café as he took the steaming cup from Yoongi. “I’m really sorry I’m making you do this each time. You must think I’m the weirdest person you’ve ever met.”

“The weirdest? Oh, if you think that you obviously never worked in a coffee shop before!” Yoongi chuckled when he remembered his latest encounter with “weird.” Two days ago there was a guy who wanted to get his coffee in a tupperware container because he ‘wanted to take it home’. When I tried to tell him that the ‘to go’ sign at the door means he can actually take them home without bringing a box he looked at me as if I’d insulted him. In the end he wanted me to use the tupperware nonetheless. Oh, or that one group of teenagers who made a bet of how many espresso shots it would take before someone would get a heart attack. Or that girl who asked me to pee into the coffee because she had found out that her boyfriend was cheating on her and she told me she ‘couldn’t aim like a guy’.”

“So, I’m not number one on your weirdest customers-list?” Jimin felt relief, chuckling at all the scenarios Yoongi was talking about. He had hoped in his heart that Yoongi really didn’t think of him as weird, because he thought of him so differently. Yoongi was everything but weird. He was cute, kind and always nice to him. He never laughed once about his order and always made him feel warm and welcome. And when he winked Jimin’s heart did a jump each time. Taehyung had said that he had a crush on him and with each visit, he had to admit that he really did. Jimin smiled, taking his cup in his hand as he thought of asking Yoongi out. It was just a flicker of thought, before he pushed it deep down again.

“No, you’re not.” There was no one else in line and looking to long at Jimin made him nervous so he grabbed a damp cloth and started to shallowly wipe the counter. He had been so interested in the unusually strict order that he had actually made himself a cup of coffee like that once. It had tasted.. interesting. As if he had only tasted coffee in black and white so far and had suddenly taken a sip of colour. He had gone back to drinking his coffee black after that because he was lazy about how he was getting his caffeine but he liked making Jimin’s. His coworker had complained before, murmuring angrily about the ‘people who have to make everything about them and try to steal as much of your time as possible’ but Yoongi was pretty sure that that wasn’t it. Jimin didn’t order this specific to make himself feel special or make the baristas work for him as long as he could for the sum of a few dollars. He was just really specific about tastes.

“That’s…that’s good.” The younger could have slapped himself for that stupid answer as he stepped away awkwardly. There was nothing much left to do as he had his coffee in hand, but to walk away like he always did. So, Jimin turned around, carefully took a sip from his drink as he smiled. “It’s perfect,” He said and gave Yoongi a thumbs up, internally cringing at himself as he pushed open the door with his shoulder. “God damn it, Jimin, you dumb fool.” He murmured to himself, whining quietly as he stopped.

It was now or never, Jimin thought. 

He wanted to be brave for once, so he just downed the hot coffee in one go, ignoring the burn. The moment it was empty, Jimin grabbed a pen from his notebook that he had carelessly thrown in his bag and wrote down his number. If Yoongi liked him coming back, maybe…just maybe he was okay with meeting up sometime…somewhere… Jimin gulped heavily, ignoring how rough his throat felt right now and instead turned back around. He opened the front door with a little too much force (very much glad now there weren’t many people around but Yoongi behind the counter) and put his cup on top. 

“T-thank y-you.” His voice was just as shaky as his hand when Jimin turned around on his heel quicker than he came in and rushed out again. There he stood a little awkwardly for a moment, looking left and right from him, not really sure what to do next. His heart was hammering hard and when he glanced over his shoulder, Jimin’s gaze met Yoongi’s for a second. Biting his lip, Jimin could have slapped himself for being so awkward. Wasn’t it usually the other way around? The barista being the one writing down phone numbers. Quickening his steps, Jimin took a turn to the left and hurried to get away from the coffee shop too scared to know what Yoongi would think. 

Yoongi looked after Jimin who had run off as if he was followed by a swarm of bees. He furrowed his brows at the empty coffee cup. There were three trash cans scattered at the coffee shop so he wondered why Jimin had placed it in front if him. He picked it up to throw it away when he saw the hastily scribbled number. With a shriek he almost dropped it, too afraid his fingers might smudge the numbers and make the number unreadable. He had been lucky (or Jimin had used a waterproof pen because despite their shaky form they were still clear). Quickly he took out his phone and saved the boy’s number so no accident could interfere with their flirting.

…

Jimin was about to head inside the dance studio when he felt his pocket vibrating and instinctively reached inside for his phone, not even sparing the screen a glance. He knew very well who it was. Or at least he thought so. “Tae, I’m already outside, didn’t we say we meet…”

“Jimin?”

His heart stopped at the sound of the familiar voice, knowing immediately who was calling him. “Oh fuck,” It slipped from his lips before he could take it back and Jimin blushed furiously, even though no one could see it. 

“I take that as a yes. And I hope your surprise doesn’t mean you’re already regretting giving me your number?” He was only half joking because he was a little nervous. But if the way Jimin’s breathing had changed was any indication then he wasn’t the only one. “I just wanted to know it you’re only particular like that with coffee or if there are other rules I should keep in mind while trying to find a nice place where I can ask you to go on a date with me.”

“No, no, I’m cool…about other stuff. It’s just the coffee…and you, I mean..i’m particular about you…,” Jimin was rambling, hopelessly trying to calm his heartbeat and his brain to work again but it seemed like it wasn’t connected right to his mouth. He let out a squeal, “A date? You mean with me? Like after your shift? Y-you want to…I didn’t mess up?” Jimin’s eyes widened in panic as he spoke quickly, “I messed up now, didn’t I?”

Yoongi chuckled with amusement. “You didn’t, but if you want to make it up to me anyways then say yes to that date, please. You have found the perfect coffee but have you also found the perfect burger? Because I could totally help with that.” He knew a small restaurant that served all kinds of burgers, including vegan or veggie options. Their spinach-cheese-patty was heavenly.

Jimin sighed in relief and nodded his head – until he realized Yoongi couldn’t really see him. “Yes, I’d like that. D-do you want me to pick you up?” He bit his lip, pressing the phone against his ear to not miss a word. 

“Yes please.” Yoongi was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt from it. “My shift ends at 8.”

[lwjstiletto]

wangxian au where lwj is a popular hand model and wwx is an independent jewellery maker [Part 2]

[Part 1]

their monthly sibling catch-up jenga ruins wwx’s plans to mope for the foreseeable future.

jc is concentrating very hard on wiggling a piece out and wwx would usually make fun of him but he can only conjure enough energy to pull out the easy looking pieces today so he has no high ground.

“name 3 good things that happened to you.” jc frowns as he reads the wooden cuboid, “like ever? or in the last month?”

jyl doesn’t quite give him a look, but a slight downturn of her lip still gets the point across.

jc sighs, “an old student of mine opened a gallery, xichen and i went for brunch and wei wuxian hasn’t bothered me in a while. what’s up with that by the way?”

“my turn.” wwx says unenthusiastically and pulls a loose jenga piece. ‘how is your love life?’ it reads. can jenga be rigged? it has to be rigged.

“you know we’re allowed to ask questions outside the jenga right?” jc snaps.

wwx knows. wwx also knows that the jenga questions were only introduced by jyl to stimulate conversation between an angry jc and a stubborn wwx when he’d come back two years ago from his apprenticeship abroad.

but wwx also doesn’t want to talk about his humiliating interaction with the man who his brother had called ‘wangji’. he even has a nice name. why is wwx’s life so hard?

“a-xian,” jyl starts, “are you alright?”

wwx looks at her with a pout, “how can i be when we’ve not seen each other for weeks? i missed you.”

jyl smiles indulgently, “i missed you too. next time you should come with me, lotus pier seems empty without you two.”

jc looks like he wants to prod wwx more but then he looks over at wwx’s jenga piece and starts to laugh. wwx hates it here.

—•—

lwj wears gloves when he’s not working to shield his hands from things like tanning, small scratches, drying out etc. any normal person would overlook these as minuscule imperfections but it could put him out of his job for weeks

he has custom made moisturising cotton gloves that he wears during the night; and thicker cotton or leather gloves for the day, depending on the weather

at first, he had found this incredibly bothersome. a month or so into it he stopped noticing them and suffered through various incidents where he tried to eat with gloves on or, on a particularly horrifying occasion, wash his hands with them.

but now, he has begun to indulge. he buys gloves in materials which are impractical, which he can only wear when he has nowhere to go and nothing to do.

there are the pastel lace gloves that draw patterns from his fingers up to his elbows, the white satin ones with frills, and finally the fingerless black gloves made of supple, soft leather.

(for ref)

they make him feel a certain type of way that he is too embarrassed to put in words, so he doesn’t.

he puts them away in a drawer on the furthest corner in his wardrobe that he only opens when he needs a confidence boost or after a particularly tiring shoot

today happens to be the latter, except it has been multiple tiring shoots and while his muscles aren’t aching anymore, he still feels like he deserves something nice.

he retrieves a new pair of leather gloves that have an adjustable belt at the wrist. he tightens the strap to the point that he can’t move his hand too much without it hurting. he hums, a pleased sound escaping his lips, and finally lets himself go

—•—

wwx has spent the last hour answering nhs’ questions about his business, future plans and why he wants to work with lan wangji (who is apparently a hand model? and a super successful one at that???)

wwx answers to the best of his abilities as his head spins from the turn of events and the recent information that has come to light. it’s- a lot.

finally nhs nods and picks up his phone to call someone.

“not presentable... what does that- it doesn’t matter, i’m not calling you here for a shoot. just come here and i will explain.” with that nhs hangs up the phone as if someone would have jumped through it otherwise

wwx, who has finally managed to absorb everything, asks, “was that lan wangji?”

nhs just smiles cryptically. wwx’s question is answered soon enough though, as lwj walks into the office twenty minutes later. he blinks at wwx but does not show any other outword reaction as he takes a seat

nhs begins to speak, “i have spoken to wei-xiong and come to the conclusion that he is not stalking you.”

lwj looks at wwx and then back at nhs, not quite an eyebrow-raise but as close to it as it gets.

“wei-xiong wants you to model for him. i will let you two speak for a while. there is no pressure, just a light discussion.” nhs says and then skips out before any of them can stop him

the air in the room gets significantly more tense. lwj’s expression is blank and when wwx can’t look at it anymore, he decides to look at his crossed arms instead

“holy shit dude, are you ok?” wwx shouts, alarmed at the bruised red marks lining lwj’s wrist where it pokes out of his long sleeved sweater

lwj looks down at it, seemingly horrified, and pulls his sleeves down before wwx can get a better look.

“are you... hurt?” wwx asks gently.

lwj shakes his head. “i’m fine.”

he sounds like he’s telling the truth. this immediately short circuits wwx’s brain because.. why else are there bruises on his wrists... what else could possibly... oh my god he likes to be tied up, wwx’s brain supplies

thankfully he manages to keep the thought to himself this time. lwj still looks at him like he heard it all the same.

“you are not stalking me.” lwj states.

“not really? i mean not for the reasons you think.” wwx cringes at himself. but lwj hasn’t walked away yet which means he must be willing to hear him out this time.

“to be honest i’ve been in a bit of a slump these past few months. i saw you at the university and wanted to work with you, i had no idea you were a hand model. i didn’t even know that was a thing.” wwx says.

lwj scrutinises him for a few seconds then nods. “thank you for explaining.”

lwj clearly sees this as the end of the conversation but wwx doesn’t want him to leave again so he starts to talk about the hand chains he has been working on the past few weeks, pulling out his phone to show lwj pictures of a few.

wwx is with his jewellery how new parents are with their babies. he has been gushing about the complicated silver work that he plans to refine over the next few days when he looks up to see lwj’s face inches from his.

lwj is looking at his phone, seemingly absorbing his words, because when wwx pauses lwj looks at him as if to ask him to continue. wwx gulps. being on the receiving end of such undivided attention, no less from such a beautiful man, is almost intimidating.

then lwj blinks again and the spell is broken.

wwx straightens up, “ah sorry for rambling.”

“if we were to work together,” lwj starts, “what would it entail?”

the implication that lwj is seriously considering working with him, a small business beneath his usual collaborations, is both flattering and slightly unreal.

“i would need you to come in to take measurements, maybe a couple of photographs so i can have refrence to your skin tone and bone structure when designing.” wwx says, voice professional.

“my... are you making these specifically for me?” lwj tilts his head, a gesture so adorably confused that wwx wants to coo.

wwx rubs his nose, “more like i’m using you as a reference? having a clear picture in my head helps kickstart my creations. once i have cohesion within my designs it’s easy to expand my range from there if that makes sense.”

lwj nods, looking contemplative. “won’t you need me to try them?”

wwx nods, seeing them on someone is usually important. after all, jewellery is made to be worn. “you’ll need to come to my workshop for that though, so i can make minor adjustments on the spot. my thoughts tend to run away from me sometimes and i forget half my observations as i work. it won’t be often though, i’ll only call you in when necessary. and if you’re too busy then we can always reschedule.” wwx says.

“you are too accommodating.” lwj says, “in this industry, you shouldn’t be.”

wwx feels a little stricken by the statement. he laughs nervously, “it’s not like i can have you sit there for hours while i work.”

“if it makes it easier for you, then you should. i’m used to holding still.” lwj says, serious.

“is that an offer?” wwx raises an eyebrow. because this whole discussion certainly sounds like they’re making a deal.

lwj turns his head to the side and the loose strands of his hair swish with the movement. it’s such a graceful motion that wwx thinks he has surely practiced this before.

when he turns back, wwx notices he’s holding a business card out towards wwx. “you can contact my agent about my scheduling. my number is only for emergency appointments in case you need them.”

wwx is speechless. he cannot believe he actually pulled this off what the fu—

he’s still feeling thunderstruck when he gets home. with numb fingers, he has managed to program lwj’s number into his phone because he knows he’ll lose the card sometime soon. his contact name is just ‘💅🏻’

it’s both because wwx thinks lan wangji is too formal, and because he has an undeniable urge to see his nails painted.

it’s just so he can know what colours and gemstones would suit him of course. the thought that probably everything would suit lwj is firmly shut down and pushed at the back of wwx’s head.

—•—

lwj gets a call at 6am the next morning. he doesn’t know why but he immediately thinks of wwx. it turns out to be nmj

“wangji, have you been well?” nmj asks.

“yes.” lwj says, unsure of why nmj is calling him so early in the morning. isn’t he supposed to be at the gym at this hour?

“that is good to hear. are you busy?”

“no. i have five hours until my shoot.” lwj says, still confused. a feeling of dread settles in his stomach.

“let’s go for coffee then. i want to treat you.” nmj says.

lwj is silent for a few seconds then, “why?”

“i need to discuss an urgent matter with you.” nmj says.

if lwj wasn’t alarmed before, he definitely is now. he agrees to meet nmj in a cafe he visits regularly.

when he gets there, nmj is waiting for him at the door, attracting every passerby’s attention with his muscles bulging out of his grey t-shirt.

when lwj comes to a stop before him, nmj gives him a small smile and opens the door for him, gesturing him to go in.

people look as they walk over to a table in the back and keep looking as they take a seat. lwj makes nmj sit with his back to the cafe so he hides lwj completely from their eyes.

“wangji,” nmj starts seriously, then pauses, pushing a glass of water towards him.

lwj doesn’t touch it.

nmj sighs, “i was at huaisang’s office the other day and bumped into a man. he came there looking for you so i asked who he was. luckily huaisang had told me about him before, su she?”

lwj takes the glass of water and chugs it. nmj looks at him with concern.

“i turned him away but i’m worried about you wangji.” nmj says, pushing his own glass of water towards lwj.

lwj doesn’t frown but it’s a close call. “i do not know what he wants.”

nmj’s face hardens. “clearly nothing good. huaisang stopped me from punching him but if you ever need me to, feel free to call me.”

lwj shakes his head, “it’ll be okay. possibly.”

this makes nmj frown even more. “i’m serious, call me if he dares follow you. we cannot press charges until he portrays to be an actual threat but i will protect you.”

“i do not need protection.” lwj’s grip tightens on his glass.

“i know that.” nmj says, “but i will offer my protection either way. it’s good to know someone has your back.”

lwj wants to fight him on this, they barely know each other outside work and lwj does /not/ need someone to do his dirty work. he doesn’t though, because he is tired of carrying the fear of being recognised/followed all by himself. it’s not like he can burden nhs or lxc.

and nmj is neither judging, nor underestimating him. he is just offering to have his back should he ever need it, and it’s not... a bad thing. it’s almost like having a friend in the industry, and maybe he needs some of those.

so he nods. even nmj seems surprised by this but gives him a smile and orders him a coffee, true to his word.

nhs emails lwj a document containing his schedule for the next month and wwx is nestled comfortably in the only free hours he gets on fridays. he’s not as upset about it as he thought he would be

at 4pm friday, lwj drives to wwx’s ‘workshop’ which is simply an extension of his untidy living space. lwj doesn’t know how someone so meticulous with their handiwork could be so in a borderline hazardous workspace.

wwx conjures up a beanbag and gestures for lwj to sit down. lwj looks at the purple monstrosity and then at wwx, dubious.

“aiyah i’m just trying to make your comfortable!” wwx says, “graphing out your measurements will take a while.”

lwj doesn’t remember the last time someone cared for his comfort when he was at work. he has to stand for hours when only his upper body is in frame, and bend his fingers in unnatural ways as per the director’s requirements. discomfort is his status quo

he has never complained. it’s part of his job to hold still and not draw anyone’s focus to the less important parts of him, i.e. his face, by voicing his discomfort. it hardly bothers him anymore.

“are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me sit upright?” lwj asks, because while wwx seems like a considerate person lwj does not want to compromise the quality of his work.

“it’s gonna take an hour,” wwx says scandalised, “i’m not cruel. besides, i already received the photographs i needed for reference so you can just chill out till i do my work.”

lwj doesn’t mention how an hour is nothing compared to the time he had stood with his hands outstretched for seven hours. with an internal sigh, he gingerly sinks down on the beanbag. he hates to admit it, but it is actually comfortable.

wwx smirks at him like he knows, then gathers his measuring tools and approaches lwj. lwj removes his cotton gloves and places them on his knees.

once wwx is close enough, he takes lwj’s proffered wrist and winds a measuring tape around it. lwj doesn’t want to stare straight at wwx’s.. ehm yeah so he looks up.

this is just as bad of an idea, because where lwj has noticed wwx is attractive, seeing him from this angle is just... too much. he can’t close his eyes either, because that will make it look like he’s— enjoying this or something.

he decides to look to the side instead, spotting a framed picture of wwx and a toddler.

“is he your son?” he asks, because he feels the need to fill the silence for the first time in his life.

wwx looks at the picture, then laughs, “no, that’s my nephew, jin ling. he’s three and already spoiled rotten by my family.”

“do you have a big family?” lwj asks. asking personal questions is both unlike him and probably very unprofessional.

wwx, however, smiles indulgently. “it’s just my shijie, her husband jin zixuan, jin ling and my brother jiang cheng. well those are the nearest and dearest ones.”

“jiang cheng?” lwj asks.

wwx frowns, “yeah. do you know him?”

“he and my brother are close friends.” lwj says.

“wait, xichen is your brother?” wwx asks, then cringes at his informality, “i guess that’s lan xichen huh? i never knew his family name.”

“and what about wen qing? how do you know her?” wwx asks as he starts to try different sizes of measurement rings to see what fits lwj’s fingers.

it takes lwj a few seconds to answer. “wen qing drew studies of human anatomy for her final project.”

“let me guess,” wwx grins, placing a ring on his middle finger, “were you the hand section of her anatomy?”

lwj feels his ears burn for some reason. “yes. it’s how i got discovered.”

“discovered? like you got scouted for hand modelling based on a painting?” wwx pauses in his movements.

“nie huaisang was present at the final display at the university’s gallery, he’s fond of art.” lwj says.

wwx looks impressed, “just like that?”

“it is common for hand models.” lwj says.

“okay, so in your professional opinion, could i sell-“ wwx pauses, “could i be a hand model?”

he wiggles his fingers in front of lwj’s face.

“no.” lwj says.

“oh wow, blunt but effective.” wwx pouts

“you have callouses.” lwj explains, taking a closer look at wwx’s hands, “and dents from using your tools. things like cuticles, tanning and nails are fixable, but the others will remain permanent if you plan on still making jewellery and doing other strenuous work.”

when he looks up, wwx’s face is unreadable. thinking that he has offended the man, he draws back. “i apologise.”

that seems to snap wwx out of it, “don’t! you don’t need to apologise. it’s just– i don’t think anyone has ever answered a silly question of mine so sincerely. i’m still absorbing it.”

“i’m just being honest,” lwj says, “you have a good bone structure. you could have considered this line of work were it not for your existing business.”

wwx drops lwj’s hand and places both of his own on his cheeks, “i’m pretty sure that you’re messing with me but i can’t prove it so i’m gonna let it go.”

lwj suppresses a smile. maybe he doesn’t need the free hours on fridays.

[Part 3]

[aaknopf]

The poet Quan Barry is also a fiction writer, whose mischievous We Ride Upon Sticks has just been published. In the fall of 1989, the seniors on the losing Danvers Falcons field hockey team avail themselves of some locally-sourced Salem witchery, in the hope of concocting a winning season. They make a pact, signing their names in a spiral notebook with Emilio Estevez on the cover, and rip and tie strips of Falcons-blue tube sock around all their arms, sealing their dark bond. In the scene below (which includes a special guest appearance by the poet Philip Larkin), the team mingles with members of the football team at their favorite pizza joint. We meet one of the more mysterious players, Girl Cory, so-called because there’s also a Boy Cory on the squad; Boy Cory’s story, like that of Girl Cory, their teammates Jen Fiorenza (whose awesome, high-teased bangs are known to all as “the Claw”), Abby Putnam (ancestor of an original Salem accuser), and others in the mix here, is a journey of identity, community, and the magic of high school friendships.

from We Ride Upon Sticks

“Our butts are going to States this year,” said Jen. “Where are your butts going?” Just then Girl Cory walked in. For a moment the air in Rocco’s filled with the scent of aquamarine waters and palm trees, the harmonies of steel drums, then just as quickly it was back to cheese pizza and the crackling of the deep fryer. “ ’Sup?” Log called out. Most guys at Danvers High didn’t talk to Girl Cory. From what we could glean of teen-boy-dom it seemed most teen boys only have a finite amount of confidence, and they couldn’t afford to go blowing it willy-nilly on a hopeless case like Girl Cory. It was plain to see she was out of everyone’s league. Most people accepted this. It was pure science, like the apple falling from the tree. Girls like Girl Cory didn’t date regular human boys. Historically, since the invention of written records in the girls’ third-floor bathroom concerning who was banging whom, Girl Cory had never dated anyone at Danvers High. Mostly she left in her wake a trail of names from the local private-school universe, places like the Prep, Pingree, even some faraway boy at Deerfield. Log’s “ ’Sup?” was still hanging in the air. Only he among his brethren had confidence to burn. Little did he know but “ ’Sup?” was an excellent question, one we’d been secretly wondering all our lives. Yeah, Girl Cory, what’s up? As she stood at the counter, Girl Cory nodded at Log but didn’t say a word or even take off her Ray-Bans. “And what does your soon-to-be captain have to say about you hosers going to States?” whispered Brian Robinson in a small voice, only looking at Girl Cory indirectly via a shiny plaque mounted on the wall, as if she were a Medusa with the power to transform flesh to stone. “Which is it?” he said. “You guys going to States, or 2-8 again?” “For your information, we haven’t voted for captain yet,” said Jen. Her Claw gave him the stink eye. Rocco’s adult son Vinny slammed her order down on the counter. Ceremoniously, she rose to retrieve her Diet Coke and two slices of Hawaiian. She noticed Log Winters was still staring at Girl Cory. “Take a picture, my friend,” she said, bending over and whispering in Log’s ear. “It’ll last longer.” Then she raised her voice so that all of Rocco’s could partake in the annunciation. “Besides, Cory already has a boyfriend.” “Who’s that?” said Log. “Nobody you’d know,” Jen projected. “He sent her flowers today. Isn’t that right, Cory?” Girl Cory turned and flashed Jen a look that simultaneously said both shut up and keep talking. She was an enigma like that. Honestly, none of us really knew her. Even now that we were all part of the sisterhood of the blue sweat sock, it was like she had constructed a wall to keep us out, a sunroom off the kitchen where she could sit and drink her Earl Grey in peace while the rest of us crowded around a plate of stale bagels in the breakfast nook. Girl Cory pulled a wad of napkins from the dispenser and went over to where Little Smitty was sitting with Mel. What’s up, Girl Cory? All season long, the rest of us standing around wondering, Girl Cory. What. Is. Up? And then one day we’d take a big juicy bite of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, and to our everlasting sorrow, we’d find out. “Philip” made his first appearance during the ’88 season shortly after Girl Cory passed her driver’s test. It was late October, one of those autumn days when the afternoon sky prematurely takes on a hazy shade of winter. We were just off the school bus after returning from a massacre in Gloucester, 4-0. Truthfully, the score didn’t accurately reflect the gutting we’d endured at the hands of the Gloucester Fishermen. The two senior co-captains, Gina Packer and Mary Ellen Sommers, had gotten into a fight during the coin toss over whether to pick heads or tails. At one point, Gina reached over and ran her finger through the blue face paint where Mary Ellen had spackled the letters DHS on her cheek. We winced. It was like watching someone ruin a beautifully frosted cake. When we finally arrived back at Danvers High, Julie Kaling stopped reciting that part of the Nicene Creed about God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, her crucifix glinting in the dark of the bus. To be honest, after the kind of outing it had been, some of us found her religious yammering weirdly comforting. We’d grabbed our stuff from the locker room and headed out to wait for our moms to come get us or to bum rides with the seniors who lived in our neighborhoods. Girl Cory had hit the two-fecta, having recently passed her driver’s test and been given her own wheels to boot. Her brand-new white Fiero was parked in the student lot. The Fiero had been purchased weeks before her driving test and was just sitting around in her multi-car garage collecting dust. Driving was still a novelty to her, the monogrammed fingerless gloves still fun to slip on. That day she was giving Abby Putnam a ride home. It was Abby who pointed out the mint-green envelope stuck under the windshield wipers. Girl Cory peeled the envelope off the wet glass and held it between her fingers like a dead roach. “This is a wicked bummer,” she said. “Can you get ticketed here?” Abby shook her head. She watched as her friend tore open the soggy envelope. Girl Cory’s face betrayed nothing. If anything, she looked a little more bloodless. “Lemme see,” said Abby. She took the slip of paper in her hands and stared for a long time at the blurred writing, the washed-out words as if painted in watercolor. Roses are Red— Your Fiero—it’s White— With seating for two. Don’t! Put up a fight—take me with you! The next day before practice we showed the letter around. Heather Houston performed a close reading on it worthy of a 5 on the AP English test. She commented on the juvenile use of the Dickinsonian em dash, the strange imperatives, the elisions, the contradictory tone of both fight and flight. “Whoever wrote this is not playing with a full deck,” she concluded, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It doesn’t even make sense. Like this part. ‘Don’t!’ Don’t what? Use your words, people!” She was practically spitting she was so worked up about it. Poor Heather Houston took weak syntactical choices as a personal affront. Julie Kaling patted her comfortingly on the back. “I dunno, I think it’s sweet,” said Little Smitty softly. This was back in the days before Emilio and the blue tube sock, back when Little Smitty ate all the spinach on her plate happily with a big smile as though it were cotton candy. “What I will say,” said Heather, offering a second conclusion about the note, “is Philip Larkin he is not.” Becca Bjelica looked at AJ Johnson and silently mouthed, Philip who? We were all thinking the same thing. Nobody rolled their eyes at her. How were we supposed to know some curmudgeonly British poet, even one who’d written: They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. And thus “Philip” was born. That first year “Philip” mostly left little things lying around in plain sight, like a cat who brings its owner dead robins. A tube of Chanel lipstick without the actual lipstick in it. A box of chocolates, but instead of sweets slotted in each compartment, there were rocks. Girl Cory took it all in stride. We didn’t tell anyone in the adult world because what was there to say? Some poor slob had the hots for a girl so beautiful she should have been in a music video, and he left her crazy presents? Back then the word “stalker” wasn’t really part of anyone’s vocabulary. Fatal Attraction had come out the year before, but that was just stuff that happened to sexy creeps like Michael Douglas, who banged complete strangers and mostly had it coming. And so Girl Cory learned to live with it. And so we learned to live vicariously through her. In time, we began to look forward to “Philip’s” offerings. They made us feel like maybe somewhere down the road, somebody, anybody, might possibly want us. Even the time he dropped a note in her schoolbag that said, “I hate you, you stupid peckerhead,” and signed it “Much l♥ve.” We were a bunch of mostly inexperienced teen girls. We thought that’s what true romance was supposed to look like. A boy telling a girl she was a stupid peckerhead, but she was his stupid peckerhead. Lord, make us worthy, we prayed. God from God, Light from Light, Boyfriend from Boy Who Considers Us a Peckerhead. It seemed like the thing to ask for. None of us ever thought to pray for a better caliber of boy.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about We Ride Upon Sticks by Quan Barry

Browse other books by Quan Barry including her four poetry collections published in the Pitt Poetry Series

Read the full text of Philip Larkin's "This Be the Verse" at the Poetry Foundation

Peruse other poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series 

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[amandaoftherosemire]

Sing For Me - Chapter Two

Fandom: Marvel Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC (Sasha)

Author: @amandaoftherosemire​

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,618

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: language, sexual subject matter, mostly angst, a touch of fluff (future chapters will be NSFW due to smut)

Summary: Sasha mulls over the events from chapter one before bed. Bucky does the same.

A/N: Not consistent with Marvel canon. I just started writing fanfic, please be patient. I’m open to constructive criticism and any help more experienced writers would like to offer. This chapter is a bit slow but I really am going somewhere with this, I swear. ;)

Banner by @hellzzzbelle​

Sing For Me Masterlist

Chapter One here

Chapter Two

And that was the first time Bucky smiled AT Sasha. She smiled back at him and Bucky felt like her eyes were drawing him in to drown in that warm sea. Somehow, he was completely fine with that.

With a jerk, Bucky recoiled. He was NOT completely fine with that. There were a thousand excellent reasons to avoid Sasha. Just because she was unexpectedly funny was not a reason to forget that.

The smile fell from his face and he turned away, pointedly ignoring Sasha as he stored his gear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that her face didn’t simply fall, it crumpled. Her eyes grew wet before she turned away from him toward Steve.

He couldn’t help but hear that the rasp in her voice was more pronounced like she was holding back tears. Bucky felt an unexpected pang of guilt.

“I’m really genuinely sorry, Steve,” she implored. “That was totally inappropriate. I am so sorry if I embarrassed you or made you uncomfortable.“

Sasha reached out. Her hands and forearms were covered by her habitual fingerless gloves. The gloves were protection, for both her and them. She touched the back of Steve’s hand gently with her bare fingers.

Forgive me?” she said, smiling a little.

Steve instinctively pulled back when he felt her power touch him. He was always a little apprehensive when Sasha made this kind of connection. She knew the team was still wary of her power. That was why she kept her palms covered as most of her power centered there. No one likes to feel that their emotions are not their own. Knowing that she could see their innermost feelings regardless of how they masked them was uncomfortable enough. That she could also manipulate those feelings was… unsettling, to say the least.

Bucky watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye. It raised his hackles to see her gently touch Steve with her bare fingers. Apparently, it was the thought of Steve’s anger that had her eyes wet. He cursed himself for thinking he had any power to touch the Ice Queen.

The look on Steve’s face was inscrutable, but Bucky had known Steve his whole life. As Sasha smiled up at him, Steve’s eyes darkened with something that made Bucky’s gut twist. With what, Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The moment broke when Steve laughed and caught her up in a hug.

“You’re one dizzy dame, Sash.”

Steve was squeezing her tight enough that her voice emerged as a squeak. “So, is that a yes?”

“Nothing to forgive you for, right? It’s all Tony’s fault.” Steve set her back down and for a moment they grinned at each other. Something passed between them that Bucky couldn’t really identify but it made him want to punch his best friend square in his perfect jaw.

“Tony,” Sasha shouted, the relief in her voice evident as she pulled away from Steve and walked back into the cockpit,“ why haven’t we blown this popsicle stand yet?”

“I wanted to wait and see if Cap was going to chuck you out the back door first,” Tony replied.

“They had popsicles in there?” Clint asked, indignantly, as the quinjet rose into the air. “Nat, why didn’t you bring me any?”

As they sped through the air towards home, Bucky’s superhearing caught Sasha murmuring to Tony under the sound of Natasha’s laughter.

“I told you I’d only make it worse. Barnes hates me more than ever now.”

When the quinjet finally set down on the roof of Avengers Tower, it was after eight o’clock. As they walked into the kitchen, the team was greeted by the sight of bubbling hot pizza on the island.

Sasha dived in, grabbing a paper towel and stacking three huge pieces on top of one another.

“I’m donion rings, guys, so I’m heading to bed. My brain feels like it’s on fire,” she said, grinning wryly.

As she walked out of the kitchen amidst a chorus of good nights, Sasha grinned as she heard Barnes say, “Donion rings?”

Sasha ate the first piece of pizza completely naked in her bathroom while she pulled the pins out of her sock bun with her other hand. She sighed as her hair fell down over her shoulders, the release of pressure on her head the first step in her nightly ritual.

Sasha’s nightly ritual was damn near sacrosanct. Over the course of any given day, she was bombarded with the buzz of others’ feelings. By the end of the day she felt bruised by it. Her preparations for bed were necessary to cleanse her mind and heart so she could sleep.

She stepped into the shower and let out a heartfelt moan of relief as she tilted her head into the stream of water and felt it flow down her back, warming and soothing her. She felt like the water was washing away all those burning thoughts that were tormenting her. She stayed like that until she felt like her mind was somewhat clear again.

Washing her hair, she allowed those thoughts of Steve back in. Those thoughts didn’t burn so fierce and she felt like she could look at them more closely.

Sasha worried about that look that Steve had given her when she shared her emotions with him. For a moment, his eyes had changed and she got the feeling Steve would like to show her exactly how he was in the bedroom. The thought was… intriguing.

Steve was smoking hot, no question. With those big blue eyes, killer jawline, and sweet smile, he had the face of an angel. Add to it that body and the man was pure unadulterated eye candy. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t had some less than innocent fantasies about what she could do with that body (today was not the first time she had wondered about his kinks), but she had never really considered making those fantasies reality.

To top it all off, Steve was just a good person. He radiated kindness and strength. He had an unshakeable sense of right and wrong and an inability to stand aside in the face of injustice. Put it all together, and he was damn near irresistible. And that was the problem.

There was nothing stopping her from indulging herself, of course. She and Steve were both unattached adults and she was sure tearing up the sheets with him would be phenomenal. Alas, that’s all it would ever be. She and Steve were not a good match romantically; she could feel that in the way their emotional auras resonated together. He was practically a paragon and way too good for her. Something in her would always crave the edge.

As she stepped out of the shower, she felt much more relaxed. Calmly examining her feelings and using logic to come to a conclusion always made her feel better. The solution for this conundrum was evident. She had the power to keep the emotional climate in a room where she wanted it. She’d just have to make sure she kept the emotional resonance on a firm friendship level when it came to Steve. No sweat.

She ate the second piece of pizza as she blow dried her hair. She felt the familiar brush of grief as she did so. Honestly, she never wanted to stop feeling it. Her father had always dried her hair before bed when she was a little girl.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t go to bed with wet hair,” she murmured softly.

She ate the third piece of pizza sitting on her couch with a glass of pinot noir and an old episode of The Addams’s Family. She’d seen every episode so many times that it rested her brain to watch any of them again.

When the episode was over, she stood up and stretched. A little overly full of pizza and warm from the wine, she felt ready to deal with the rest of her burning thoughts. She turned off the television and set her meditation playlist to play from the Bluetooth speaker near the glass door to the balcony. She opened the door wide and stepped out into the cool dark.

It was stormy and overcast, but not yet raining. A brisk breeze blew through and played with Sasha’s hair. She laughed, delighted. Sasha loved storms. She half believed in fairies, in sylphs, because the wind always felt like it was playing with her. She adored it.

Sasha had placed a table on the balcony for her meditation. It was the right height so that when she sat cross-legged on top, she could see clearly over the railing. She liked to feel as close to the air as possible when she meditated. It felt like the air was blowing all of her thoughts and fears away so she could sit with herself and just be for little while. She climbed up and arranged her soft purple cotton robe around her. She straightened her back and let her hands fall loosely to her lap. Breathing deep and slow, she closed her eyes.

She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to clear her mind until she examined the rest of those burning thoughts. She let them come into her mind without trying to resist or quiet them.

Bucky Barnes had smiled at her.

Yes, he had immediately scowled and turned away, but he had smiled at her.

He’d also laughed at her jokes.

What the fuck was that about?

Her heart hurt a little as she reexamined every interaction she’d had with Barnes that day, looking for nuance of tone and expression. Without being close to him, she couldn’t use her power to find out what he was feeling. She found it frustrating in the extreme and was sure it was on purpose. Barnes avoided her like the plague.

She didn’t bother to ask herself why she cared. She had no illusions about this. She knew why she cared. She was irresistibly drawn to Barnes. It didn’t matter that he was downright rude to her on most occasions and thoughtlessly cruel the rest of the time. She knew pining after someone who seemed to want to hurt you was stupid at best and psychologically damaging at worst.

She had clothed her hurt in indifference. It was the only way she knew how to deal with it. She’d bleed to death silently rather than ever admit to the wound. Her pride would accept nothing less.

Still, something inside her sang at the sight of him. At the core of her being, a small voice sang to her, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but always uniquely hers. The day she met Barnes, that voice started singing to him. She desperately wanted to know if something in him could sing back to her.

Today, when he smiled at her, she felt like maybe it could.

She let out a huff of breath as she realized she wasn’t getting anywhere, just perseverating on the same old obsession. She actively pushed the thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the smell of rain on the wind that danced through her hair.

Bucky watched Sasha through the glass door from the shadows of his bedroom. The door was cracked so he could hear her humming along with her music. He was sprawled in a chair tucked into the corner of his bedroom at an angle that allowed him to clearly see all of the balcony. He, too, had a nightly ritual. Every chance he got, he would sit in this chair, drink a beer, and watch Sasha meditate.

When he first started watching her, he told himself it was because he didn’t trust her and wanted to keep an eye on things. Over time, however, he had to admit that he kept coming back for something else. He didn’t want to examine it too closely, but something about the way she sat so straight and still soothed some of his anger and bitterness. When she was finished, she always looked so content and serene. He desperately wanted some of that contentment and serenity for himself. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would rub off on him if he could get close.

He scowled and took a long pull from the beer. He reminded himself that he stayed away from Sasha for a reason. He tried to remind himself that he hated her. He hated how she told stories, all wry humor, like she was imparting secret gossip. He hated how she pulled her lower lip when deep in thought. He hated that stupid curl that fell out of the bun she always wore down the back of her neck. It looked smooth and soft and his hands itched whenever he saw it. Until today, he had hated her unshakeable poise.

He laughed under his breath when he thought about the mission and how shakeable Sasha’s poise had turned out to be. She really was adorable, all flustered and apologetic. And the way she said his name today. For the first time, he’d heard her say “Barnes” without that insufferable tone, but with warmth and humor. He wondered if hearing her call him Bucky would sound even better.

On that thought, Bucky slumped further into the chair. He knew that he could never find out. He had come a long way in his recovery, even in just the last few months, but he knew he wasn’t ever going to be the man he once was. Thanks to Shuri and T'challa the trigger words were gone. With therapy and time he’d come to a place where he could cope with the memories and the changes in the world around him. However, he felt like that’s all he was doing, coping.

He was still so angry and bitter. He felt like he’d come apart at the seams sometimes with the rage that would overtake him. Rage for the life that had been stolen from him. Rage for the atrocities he’d been forced to commit. Rage for the pain that his recovery had caused his dearest and oldest friend.

The regret was even worse. Regret for the loved ones he’d never see again. Regret for the lives he had been forced to destroy. Regret for the lost boy that had loved so freely and without restriction. Regret for everything he’d lost and could never recover.

He stood up suddenly. He could feel his mind turning to darker and darker thoughts and knew that if he didn’t move, get out of his own head, he’d be screaming in his sleep tonight.

Suddenly, with a crack of thunder, the skies opened up and rain began to pour down on Sasha. Without thinking, Bucky moved closer to the glass. Sasha hadn’t moved, just tipped her head back and let the rain pour over her. She laughed, the sound so full of delight he could feel it move through him, dispersing some of the darkness that had reached out to claim him anew.

He moved even closer in concern when he saw her stand up on her table. She took her robe in her hands and looking out into the dark, sank into a deep curtsey. Still chuckling, she clambered down and walked back into her rooms, shutting the door behind her.

Bucky stood at his door, one hand on the glass where he had unknowingly placed it when she walked away. He had to resist her. She was too good, too pure, too sweet for the likes of him, he saw that now. He realized that he avoided her, been cruel to her, because he wanted to protect her. She could never be allowed to feel what he felt. She was light, and he would not taint her with the darkness inside him.

Dammit. It was much easier when he thought he hated her.

Chapter Three here

[your-dietician]

9 Best Compression Gloves of 2021 for Arthritis, Carpal Tunnel

New Post has been published on https://depression-md.com/9-best-compression-gloves-of-2021-for-arthritis-carpal-tunnel/

9 Best Compression Gloves of 2021 for Arthritis, Carpal Tunnel

Compression gloves may support circulation and manage tingling and pain in your hands. They work by lightly squeezing the veins in your hands to support healthy circulation, while also preventing inflammation that can cause joint pain if you have:

Different types of compression gloves are made to address additional symptoms, like sweaty hands or hand cramping. But the evidence for using compression gloves in general is limited, with mixed results.

Anecdotally, many people swear that wearing compression gloves makes daily tasks pain-free. There are some small studies that indicate that compression gloves may reduce pain levels, but nothing to suggest that these types of gloves work as a long-term treatment.

For most people who wear these types of gloves, pain and tingling will probably eventually return after you take the gloves off. While you’re wearing them, they very well may be helpful.

We put together a list of the best compression gloves we could find to help you get started if you’re interested in giving these products a try.

There are so many different compression glove products to choose from that it can be difficult to narrow it down. We didn’t accept any products or compensation from companies when putting together this list of the best products.

What we did consider was the following:

Customer reviews. We took a look at every review we could get our hands on to determine whether the typical consumer was happy with the way that their compression gloves worked, taking note of any common dissatisfactions or complaints.

Ease of use. Any product that seemed overly complicated or that customers reported having trouble using wasn’t a candidate for this list.

Research-backed claims. Products that hype their compression gloves as a miracle cure for a wide range of ailments weren’t considered. Instead, we took a look at clinical trials and medical literature to see if what these products claim to do was possible.

Pricing and accessibility. We did our best to find products that were affordable, convenient to order, and that are produced by trusted brands in the compression glove space.

Our compression glove list hits a range of price points so that you can find something that fits your budget.

$ = under 15

$$ = $15-$30

$$$ = more than $30

Our use of the word “best”

Most compression gloves aren’t considered medical devices, so there’s no standard methodology set up to evaluate them.

The FDA isn’t evaluating claims that these companies make about their gloves. What works for one person might not work for another, so the use of “best” is extremely subjective in this case.

With that being said, consumers trust some brands and products more than others. It’s the products that have the most consumer trust that we perceive to be your best bet in terms of trying out compression gloves.

Dr. Arthritis Compression Gloves

Price: $$

Key features: These simple, cotton-nylon blend gloves are loved by reviewers, developed by doctors, and approved to treat a wide range of inflammatory and circulatory conditions affecting your hands. They’re meant to be breathable and easy to clean. These gloves are also on the lower end of the pricing scale, and reviewers say that they are comfortable enough to sleep in.

Considerations: These compression gloves are a great pick for daily use and can be used comfortably for hours at a time. But don’t expect for them to last forever. Even the happiest customers reported that they expected to replace the gloves every few months.

IMAK Arthritis Gloves

Price: $$

Key features: These compression gloves are actually endorsed by the Arthritis Foundation. They’re long enough to pull on and off more easily than some others, especially if arthritis makes using other gloves difficult. They’re a cotton/spandex blend, so your palms won’t get too sweaty. And the open-glove design makes it easy for you to go about your daily tasks all while wearing these gloves.

Considerations: They’re on the thinner side, and some reviewers were unhappy with the quality of the stitching. If they work for you for everyday use, you may have to replace them before too long.

IMAK Computer Gloves

Price: $$

Key features: If you’re looking for gloves because you have carpal tunnel, you’ll need gloves that stabilize your wrist joint in addition to offering compression. Compression gloves might not help with the primary cause of carpal tunnel, which is nerve compression, but gloves padded with cooling gel may reduce pain, according to a very small 2001 study. IMAK Computer Gloves offer an ergonomic shape, wrist support, and massaging beads meant to sooth carpal tunnel pain.

Considerations: These gloves might help to prevent a flare-up of carpal tunnel pain, but they don’t offer a strong compression element. If you’re looking to treat inflammatory conditions, like arthritis, in addition to carpal tunnel, you might want to invest in a heavier-compression option.

RiptGear Compression Gloves

Price: $$

Key features: Studies are mixed on whether copper-infused materials really make a difference in providing pain relief. With that in mind, the RiptGear Compression Gloves provide a good deal of compression in addition to some wrist stabilization. The copper-infused fabric is also antimicrobial, which is a huge benefit when you’re using them out and about.

Considerations: Reviewers say that the sizing isn’t uniform with the products that they received, so keep that in mind when you’re trying to figure out what size to order. Any copper-infused product needs to be hand-washed and can’t be put in the dryer, so also be aware that these gloves aren’t the easiest to keep clean.

Dr. Arthritis Full Fingered Arthritis Gloves

Price: $$

Key features: Most compression gloves tend to be fingerless, meaning they cut off at a joint midway up your finger. If you experience swelling or pain in your fingertips, you’ll want gloves that cover your whole hand. These gloves are made from the same nylon/cotton blend as our “Best Overall” pick, with the addition of fingertip compression for your fingers and your thumb. Reviewers also note that the fingertips on the gloves help keep heat in, so they’re warmer to wear.

Considerations: A common complaint among customers is the seams of the gloves, which some reviewers feel sit too tightly against the wrist and fingers. The gloves are supposed to be tight, but seams that aren’t tight to the glove’s interior can start to get irritating after hours of wear.

Thermoskin Premium Arthritic Gloves

Price: $$$

Key features: Gloves that provide compression therapy in addition to warming your hands can soothe tired, aching joints, especially in the colder months. These gloves aim to capture your body’s heat and redistribute it around your fingertips and hands while reducing swelling in joints. They also have a wrist strap if you need increased wrist stability. The gloves have a textured top layer to improve your gripping ability, too.

Considerations: These gloves may heat up, but they don’t use a heating mechanism, so they may not be as warm as gloves that are heated. They’re also on the pricier side, so you may want to go with a cheaper option for your everyday compression gloves.

Intellenetix Therapy Gloves

Price: $$$

Key features: If you often feel pain in the joints in your hands, vibrating compression gloves may provide some relief. A small 2017 study showed that women with osteoarthritis reported reduced pain symptoms after using vibrating gloves once per day for 20 minutes. These Intellinetix gloves have small motors inside that vibrate your hands.

Considerations: Vibrating compression gloves tend to cost a lot more than basic compression gloves. If this is a feature that’s not essential for you, you can get a great compression glove for one-third of the price. Also check the sizing guide carefully, as returns may not be permitted for gloves that don’t fit.

ComfyBrace Arthritis Hand Compression Gloves

Price: $

Key features: Reviewers rave about these well-priced gloves, which offer firm compression with a lot of comfort. People with rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, and carpal tunnel all say that these gloves offer the best bang-for-the-buck in terms of ease of use. They even have a special seam design to prevent rubbing and irritation, which some other manufacturers can’t say.

Considerations: Keep in mind that these gloves are the least expensive on the round-up, and there’s an aspect of “you get what you pay for.” While you may save money initially, it’s possible you’ll have to replace them earlier than you would some other brands, and there’s only a difference of a couple of dollars when you consider upgrading to a more durable product.

Ironclad Immortals PC Gaming Gloves

Price: $$$

Key features: Long sessions of computer or console gaming can cause cramping in your hands. Gaming gloves may provide relief, but it’s essential to find gloves that still allow for freedom of movement and that don’t turn your hands into a sweaty, uncoordinated mess. These gloves are meant to improve your grip for a better gaming performance while keeping cramping and sweaty fingers from becoming an issue. They also have hand wrist padding, which can make gaming sessions at a keyboard more comfortable, and they’re machine-washable.

Considerations: These gloves are fingerless, so you may still get sweaty on your fingertips while you’re gaming. They’re marketed for use for PC, but should also work great for console gaming. You’ll also want to be aware that these gloves offer less compression than some other options on this list, which makes them ideal for the finger movements required in gaming but might not help with conditions like arthritis.

When you’re buying compression gloves, think about what, exactly, your primary use for them is going to be.

Maybe your primary goal is to reduce swelling and pressure on your joints. Maybe you’re looking for gloves that redistribute heat to your hand because of Reynaud’s or another health condition.

Or maybe you’re simply looking for gloves that reduce cramping in your hands, or that keep your wrist steady while you’re typing. It’s important to know what the primary function of the glove needs to be before you buy.

You may also want to consider:

Ease of use/durability

Gloves should be easy to pull on and off, and have simple instructions about how to keep them clean.

Some manufacturers will recommend that you have multiple pairs for different tasks (ie: one pair for gardening, and another pair for sleeping in), while other brands claim that you can wear their gloves all the time.

Comfort and fit

Fit is essential for the gloves to be effective. You may need to have someone else help you carefully measure your hand and look at the sizing guide of any gloves you’re considering.

Not every glove manufacturer will allow for returns if the gloves don’t fit, so read reviews to see if the gloves run small, large, or true to size.

Material

Only you know the types of material that tend to be comfortable on your skin. Gloves that are made of cotton blends tend to be easier to clean and more breathable.

Gloves with a higher nylon or spandex ratio may provide a higher level of compression. Look into what your compression gloves are made of before you purchase.

Compression gloves support circulation in your fingers, preventing swelling in your joints. They do this by applying a gentle, uniform pressure that surrounds your hands and the base of your fingers.

At the same time, your hands are surrounded by a warm layer of heat from the gloves, which can relax your muscles and, in theory, help provide pain relief.

Compression gloves are sometimes recommended by physical therapists and rheumatologists for people who have any type of inflammatory or swelling condition in their hands. But evidence for how well they work is inconclusive.

Compression gloves may very well provide temporary relief of your inflammation or pain, and maybe even increase your range of motion when you use them regularly. Just keep in mind that most of the evidence we have at this point is anecdotal.

Compression gloves work best when you follow directions from your doctor or physical therapist about how you should be using them. Follow these tips:

Make sure to carefully read any instructions that come with your gloves before you use them.

When you first put them on, compression gloves should feel snug without feeling tight.

Don’t wear compression gloves for 24 hours at a time. Put them on during tasks or activities where you tend to notice swelling or pain in your hands.

Make sure your hands are clean and dry every time that you put them on.

Start by wearing the gloves a few hours at a time, and work your way up to wearing them for longer if needed. If you want to try wearing them while you’re asleep, make sure you’ve tested the gloves out several times during the day first.

There are a ton of options for compression gloves out there, and most have additional features that you might want to consider. Think carefully about which features you actually need in these gloves before you purchase them, and always be aware of any warranties or return policies.

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[lake-ilinalta]

Hunter

Middas,  6:00 pm, 1st of Morning Star

   Y/N Loreius. Her bow was strapped to her back with two rabbits dangling from her belt, and two thrown over her shoulder. They slapped her fur armor with each hard step in the snow, every few feet she'd fall knee deep into the cold. The white powder and frost crunched beneath her feet on her way over the rocks and down the hill where dawnstar and white run met. 

    She'd always been a better shot than her brother, but when the war began... He was quick to enlist, leaving her to hunt for her family. Keep the farm running. The sun was down but the silence made her halt on her feet, looking down on her small homestead. Simple and neat, the mill would run from dawn to dusk grinding the wheat into flour and the cows would do restless laps in their pens. But the home she grew up in would stay quiet and calm. They'd host a guard every three days on their travels from Dragonreach to the far edge of the hold. 

    It was always quiet, but not like this. Not with the dragon born across the field, but his stable rested empty. Her eyes scanned the road, each direction from one giant camp to the other. Nothing. How can there be nothing? 

    She ran now, ran down the hill, through the snow. Worry sunk into her stomach and twisted in knots, not even realizing she'd dropped the rabbits in the snow. And didn't stop till her boots touched the grass and tundra cotton. Y/N stepped in thick blood the next step and her boots hesitated to leave the sticky ground, outside the cow pen. Her fingerless, leather gloved hand flew to her mouth choking back the gasp. The cows were slaughtered, having bled to death. The chickens were mutilated hastily and sprawled beside the cows. 

    "No." She hissed quietly and sprinted to the door before her mind could stop her, convince her of the danger she was putting herself in.

The lock was in shambles, busted open with a knife and the iron split handing from the tan wood. She pushed the door slowly with her shoulder and light spilled out of the door way. The small house was filled with the smell of venison stew, roasting in the fire place. The door opened further and further till she saw it. Saw them, her parents, laying in bed. Blood soaked the furs that covered their bodies. She'd never run faster than she did to her mothers side. She knelt beside the bed and her hands ghosted over her mothers throat. It was mesily torn by a dagger, a wound to her fathers chest as well. 

    Sinister cackling snapped her attention away from her tears that dripped on her moms cheek. Her back was pressed against the bed post in fear, eyes taking in the figure across the room. Red and black clothes, belled fools hat. 

    "Oh well madness is merry, and merryments might! " His voice dropped low and gruff when he took a step forward."When the jester comes calling with his knife in the night." 

    "You..." Y/N voice shook.  

    The bells on his hat jingled when he tilted his head to the side. "Me? But Cicero was innocent! I told Loreius, yes!  Told him he would pay for what he did to poor Cicero!" Two more steps forward and he growled, his eyes so cast in shadows they looked like dark pits. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, no.".   

   A burst of courage lifted her to her feet, dropping the rabbits to the floor with a muted thump. 

    "They were innocent! How-" she choked down rigged sobs. "How could you?"

    "Innocent?" He screamed jumping back as though the words visibly hurt him. "No, no! Vile creature loreius was! Said Cicero was smuggling weapons for the war! Greedy, greedy. He did not care for mother and me!" 

​​​​​  "I-i..." She stepped back into the fire pit, throwing racks of spices and garlic to the floor. 

   His steps followed her across the room till the backs of her legs met the night stand. 

    "Couldn't fix the wheel. Didn't have the tools. You didn't help us either! No, of course not. Greedy stubborn Loreius'."   

   Y/N drew the dagger at her hip. It's tip was hooked, meant for cutting rope and sawing antlers and bone. It was harsh and the thick iron was easily inhumane, but half the side of the knife the jester used on her unsuspecting parents. Her grip tightened until her knuckles drained up blood and her flesh grew white. 

    The only sound was that of Cicero's incoherent mumbling while he greb closer with each step. He towered over her so high his chin pressed against his chest to meet her eyes. Terror and dread filled her lungs at the thought of sharing the murderers air. 

    Her knife sliced the open space between them, hearing it's way through his shoulder. The same stroke brought his dagger across her arm and her ribs on it's way back to his side. Only it clasped his shoulder on reflex while the blood pooled quickly through his red, darkening,armor. He threw her into the dying embers and scuttled back, withdrawing to the dark corner he'd been hiding in. 

    "I'm bleeding!" He screamed. 

     She burned her hands lifting herself from the fire. Her blisters did nothing to mask the pain of her knife wounds. By some miracle or blessing of whatever divine listened, she made it through the doorway, past the mill before collapsing. She could force her body no further, couldn't raise herself from the sharp grey grass. There was only silence. Teeth chattering silence. 

    How far did she even make it? She heard nothing over her self deprecating thoughts, or the heavy spilling of her blood. Not the howling loud enough to burst her ear drums. Not the rhythm of stead feet. She couldn't see the goat horn light or feel hands undressing her bare. 

    Magic shouldn't be painful, but this- this she felt. There was screaming that could only come from her own throat. She stilled before long, her heart slowed and breath stuttered but a small hand squeezed hers through that night and the night which followed it. 

---------------

   "Father! Father, she's awake!" 

    His footsteps were loud down wooden stairs and halted the busy homestead. Not before she caught the hints of a lute in the background and smell of baked bread. 

   "Not so loud, Lucia." A man's voice scolded gently before the bed dipped. 

    The weight next to her caused a wince to cross her Nordic features. "Where am I?" Y/N croaked.

   The child hushed her while she was lifted to a sitting position with pillows propped to her back.​​​​​

​​​​   the girls fingers brushed over her cheek, the woman's eyes could barely open on their own. 

   "Sleep."

​​​​​