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thatscarletflycatcher · 1 year ago

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For both Percival and Nadine: 3, 5, 15, 30, 41

3. How do they dress?

I think their experiences in the war, and the ongoing rationing of clothing at the time the story is set has produced a radical change in the way both dress.

Pre-war Percival was fond of flannel trousers and knits, in light blues, greys, and yellows, more for the comfort and ease of the style, and a sense of youthfulness than for a marked sportishness. In the minds of everyone at Avensley, he remained a boy, even when in his early 20s and almost an architect.

Post war Percival's wardrobe is the utility suit he got when he was discharged, and Mend and Make DoTM from his father's suits, in dark browns and greens. The style ages him and lays heavily on him, but he finds comfort in the structure and in a sense of both stepping on his father's shoes but keeping something of his presence about him. Sometimes it's gloomily about being buried with his house and his family name, like the world has left them behind.

On Nadine's side, coming from a textile family (of manufacturers, drapers and tailors), she was very fashionable before the war and enjoyed patterned fabrics and plaids and also sorts of fun combinations. The WAAF time brought a uniform, and after demobilization, she turned to utility clothing in uniform-like styles. She no longer has a strong sense of who she is: someone who served but is not a veteran, a war widow that was barely married at all, a degree in arts that was never finished, and so on and so forth. Her clothing reflects that sort of blank, in between state she feels herself in.

5. How big is their family?

They both come from small families (which is part of why they feel so isolated and stuck.

The Avensleys, for a long time, had been a rather reclusive family, first because money was too tight to go in estate to places and visit people, and later on, out of inertia and habit. The squires married late and had fewer children, on and on until the point where Percival and his sister Eleanor had no uncles and aunts, and therefore no first cousins. There's a sort of Gondorian melancholy hanging over Avensley Hall because of this.

The Dunns, because of the connections of their trade, remained close to the other branches of their families, so Nadine does have an extended family. In her own nuclear family, besides her parents, she has a brother about a decade older than herself, who works on the family business, and there was once another sibling in between them, a boy who died in infancy.

15. Can you name 5 personality traits they have?

I'm gonna cheat a little here, because it's easy to think of the ways in which they are different from each other (in the sanguine-phlegmatic opposition) but perhaps not the ways in which they are similar (because of their shared secondary temperament), and name 5 traits they share:

Once they have come to a conclusion or decision, they won't be persuaded otherwise (difference is, Percival's thought process is slow and cerebral, Nadine's is fast and intuitive).

They are both kind and compassionate and enjoy helping others (though in Percival it comes from a sense of doing good, and in Nadine, from a sense of making others happy).

They both have a tendency to low spirits and self-pity, and to attribute symbolic significance to things and events.

They are both perfectionists and need to visualize a course of action before getting started on it (but in complementary ways: Percival is indecisive when it comes to drawing the plan, but once he has a plan he sees it through. Nadine is a determined planner who loses steam once the draft is done and the whole dimension of the task becomes patent to her).

Despite being superficially friendly, they both have a hard time actually letting others see their vulnerable sides (in him, it's his self image as protector and support; in her, a fear of being found lacking and then rejected and abandoned).

30. What music do they enjoy?

For Percival, music is a function of memory; he likes or dislikes certain songs or pieces depending on the associations they evoke, rather than having a general appreciation or taste for particular genres or styles. So, for example, he's very fond of Lili Marlene because it was the only constant song and constant routine of war in the desert; he remembers fondly the nocturnes Eleanor played on her piano; he finds comfort in the familiarity of Church hymns.

For Nadine it is a function of mood. You will find her doing laundry and still humming We're Gonna Hang Out The Washing On The Sigfried Line in the year of the Lord 1947, dancing or tapping her heart with a big band number on a festive day, or breathing deeply and quietly listening to Vaughan Williams' Fantasia On a Theme By Thomas Tallis. RIP my girl, she would have loved Spotify playlists.

41. How was their childhood?

For both, as happy as a post WWI childhood can be. Nadine, being the only and late daughter, was the object of much petting and spoiling -there was no place she wasn't allowed to enter, and no grace or accomplishment that wasn't celebrated-; she was precocious, did well in school, and went into her father's shop like she herself owned it. Encouragement was high, but so were the expectations, which she now feels she has shamefully fallen short of, disappointing everyone. Percival, in turn, having a sister 4 years younger than himself, relished being a proud big brother, setting an example and teaching her things in his own childish way. He was also fond of going to the village "on adventure", and getting there all the petting his sister was getting at home. This went on even to right before he enlisted, although the relationship had progressively switched into his doing many small favors of climbing, reaching, running, moving heavy objects, etc, to the dear old (and not so very old) ladies there (which is part of what now keeps him isolated, as he feels he cannot be useful the way he was, and he doesn't want to be pitied).

From this ask game.

#asks #OC asks #thank you very much #I love them your honor #this has been very illuminating!

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informationalblogs · 1 year ago

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SEVERAL APPLICATIONS OF COTTON FIBRES

Given the importance of textiles in our daily lives, everyone should have a good understanding of the basic concepts of fibres and their properties. India, America, and Egypt are just a few of the nations that cultivate cotton. Cotton fibres are transformed through a variety of procedures into yarns, vibrant threads, vibrant textiles, and mixed fabrics.

We are all aware of the advantages of cotton and its significance to human life. However, finding the best organic cotton manufacturers in India is essential if you want to take full advantage of organic cotton’s benefits for your company.

The following qualities and attributes of cotton make it appropriate for use in textiles:

– Cotton is absorbent due to the space between its threads and can drain moisture away from the skin.

– Cotton cloth is breathable due to the fibre gaps.

– Cotton fabric maintains the smooth feel of the cotton plant, which is naturally fluffy and velvety.

– Cotton has a high strength while wet, so you can let the washing machine handle the tough work without worrying about deterioration.

– The strength of cotton increases when it is wet. Making your clothing last longer is the key to any sustainable wardrobe, which is why cotton is ideal for the fashion industry.

– Cotton fibres absorb colour well, making it simple to colour.

About 75% of garment products around the world are made of cotton. The most widely used textile fibre in the world is cotton, which manufacturers can spin into a variety of unique products.

Since ancient times, cotton has been used to create a range of woven fabrics, such as clothing, denim, canvas, flannel, and more. For instance, most T-shirts contain at least a small amount of cotton, while true blue jeans are made entirely of cotton.

Additionally, cotton is used in the home’s furniture, curtains, rugs, tablecloths, and napkins, among other things.

Considering how airy and absorbent cotton is, it is frequently utilised to make clothing for warm climates. Its remarkable draping qualities and suppleness make it a great choice for formal and business wear, as well as dresses.

Medical equipment, tarps, and industrial thread are all made from cotton. To summarise, cotton may be used to create practically any type of textile, whether it is for personal use or industrial purpose.

Cotton appears to be a miracle material that can be used for practically everything at this point. Make contact with the top Organic Cotton Suppliers in India, and together we will design the ideal product for you. All of our operations are founded on meticulous processes, ongoing upgrading, stringent controls, on-time delivery, and a passion for what we do. To learn more about our business and the greatest cotton textiles at affordable costs, get in touch with us.

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aryanapparelsindia · 2 years ago

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Several Applications of Cotton Fibres

The following qualities and attributes of cotton make it appropriate for use in textiles:

– Cotton is absorbent due to the space between its threads and can drain moisture away from the skin.

– Cotton cloth is breathable due to the fibre gaps.

– Cotton fabric maintains the smooth feel of the cotton plant, which is naturally fluffy and velvety.

– Cotton has a high strength while wet, so you can let the washing machine handle the tough work without worrying about deterioration.

– The strength of cotton increases when it is wet. Making your clothing last longer is the key to any sustainable wardrobe, which is why cotton is ideal for the fashion industry.

– Cotton fibres absorb colour well, making it simple to colour.

About 75% of garment products around the world are made of cotton. The most widely used textile fibre in the world is cotton, which manufacturers can spin into a variety of unique products.

Additionally, cotton is used in the home’s furniture, curtains, rugs, tablecloths, and napkins, among other things.

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yegarts · 2 years ago

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“I Am YEG Arts” Series: Mike Lundy

There are no days more full than the ones we look back on. That understanding of nostalgia is something Mike Lundy knows better than most. For more than six years, he and his partner, Brittni, have been reaching into the past for the inspiration behind their Canadian apparel line, Flannel Foxes. Though Lundy’s design may borrow unabashedly from the past, his mandate for the business reflects what he values today: creating ethically made, socially conscious goods that celebrate the place he calls home—beautiful Western Canada.

Designer, collaborator, and big fan of good folks—this week’s “I Am YEG Arts” story belongs to Mike Lundy.

Tell us about your connection to Edmonton and why you’ve made it your home.

I never pictured Edmonton being my home. I moved here for school to study design at MacEwan, and as Edmonton grew on me, my roots here grew deeper. It’s Canada’s biggest small town, with a welcoming warmth and community that makes me feel at home.

How did Flannel Foxes come to be, and where do you hope to take it next?

My partner, Brittni, actually started Flannel Foxes with her friend. What began as a blog was re-imagined as a clothing brand, and then when I got involved in 2016, we developed the visual identity and apparel. For the last six years we’ve been exploring Canada West, finding inspiration and reflecting it in our clothing.

Looking forward, we plan to continue to expand our range of gear, to collaborate with good folks, and to hopefully do some good for our community in the process.

You describe your apparel as “durable and ethically made in Canada (whenever possible) with partners that treat their people right.” Why was that essential to your brand, and what about that has proven the greatest reward?

Our brand celebrates Canada and the wonderful people who call this land home. We can’t honestly do that without commemorating the craft and skill of Canadian manufacturers. That’s why 100% of our gear is made in Canada. Our investments stay in the community, and as a reward we get to develop long-term relationships with our manufacturers.

What is the creative process like for you? Where do you usually begin?

The inspiration for Flannel Foxes designs comes from a place of nostalgia. Brittni and I visit antique malls and shops, getting a creative spark from old shirts, hats, travel brochures, maps, and even tractor manuals. Once we have our inspiration, the design process starts. I draw, push pixels, and work with our manufacturers until I have a collection that reflects the nostalgic mood that we’re targeting.

How important has collaboration been to your career, and why are you drawn to it?

Other people do a whole lot of cool things. When we work together, we can make something new—a crossover between two people or brands that is more than the sum of its parts. Collaboration in the context of Flannel Foxes has given us opportunities to work with our favourite brands, restaurants, and even CBC!

When you’re taking a break from a project, what will we likely find you doing?

I like to cook, and sometimes my personal social media feeds look more like a food blogger’s than a designer’s. If I’m not working, chances are I’m making some food.

How have you grown as an artist/designer throughout your career. What’s been the biggest change, and what’s stayed the same?

I’ve experienced a lot of the different facets of visual design. I started out designing a lot of websites, worked as an art director at an ad agency, and have freelanced doing brand and packaging design. I love learning new skills, and I think all that experience changed me, giving me a holistic approach to design.

What has stayed the same? I still really get a kick out of designing.

Who’s someone inspiring you right now?

I love the work that Jessica Nepton-Chaye is doing with Copper Cherry. She’s making beautiful bags and backpacks right here in Edmonton. Her dedication to craft and quality is remarkable!

Tell us about what you’re currently working on or hoping to explore next.

We’re working on a few collaborations with folks that mean a lot to us and to Edmonton. Keep your eyes peeled and you’ll see what I mean!

When you think YEG arts, what are the first three things, people, or places that come to mind?

The Royal Bison Art & Craft Fair. They’ve created a place where Edmonton’s artists and designers can showcase their weird and wonderful creations.

MacEwan. It’s where I learned my craft and developed roots in the Edmonton arts community.

The murals. I love the murals and street art across Edmonton. A couple of my faves are the giant Mr. Cenz piece on the back of The Monolith and Jill Stanton’s mural on the Varscona.

Want more YEG Arts Stories? We’ll be sharing them here all year and on social media using the hashtag #IamYegArts. Follow along! Click here to learn more about Mike Lundy, Flannel Foxes, and to shop their apparel.

About Mike Lundy

Mike Lundy is the co-owner of Flannel Foxes and an Edmonton-based designer. When he isn’t designing apparel, he attempts to run a design studio with a focus on branding and packaging design. In a previous life, he was an art director and a website designer at a few of western Canada’s most celebrated ad agencies and design studios. Mike moved to Edmonton in 2007 after growing up in northern Brazil, and is grateful to have this wonderful city as home, even if he’s not quite used to the winters.

#yeg #yegarts #edmonton #edmontonarts #iamyegarts #artistfeature #yegmade

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biracialalistair · 2 years ago

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ok fuck it this post is about modcloth and lucky brand jeans specifically.

modcloth started as a one woman business to sell the massive amount of thrifted clothes she'd accumulated in college (and eventually to sell more thrift finds bc she was good at it) and even when they started selling manufactured clothes by other brands, the Modcloth Look was still close to this concept. vintage and retro clothing with size inclusivity, easily sortable by decade and pretty spot on. the blog was a worthy read of vintage recipes and cocktails, unconventional party ideas, and spotlights on the style of the stylists. it was marketed for weird girls.

fast forward to getting bought by walmart of all people, and you can imagine how sad and tacky the fashion sense is now. like. theres still a few gems, and some decent midi skirts, but overall it looks like generic middle aged white woman clothing complete with the dominance of swing knit fabrics, and the only things id credit with keeping the OG modcloth vibe are the princess highway and collectif brands (which are literally just resells of other brands)

lucky brand jeans honestly just doesnt have as much drama and rage behind it bc its unfortunately a familiar story. company with really good jeans (still good jeans) has a really relaxed, slightly grungy, southwestern americana vibe. my absolute shit. lots of thoughtful embroidery, natural fibers, subdued dyes, quirky distressed t shirts that fit like your favorite pajama.

at some point in recent years theyve completed their hard right turn into American and this past winter i gave them a chance when i was looking for a new flannel only to have my eyes blasted by electric blue, hot pink, and red, all with hints of metallic silver threads reminiscient of justice/limited too's 2000's neon era. id still buy their jeans bc theyre such good quality but now im holding on tightly to my lucky brand sweaters and pretty poet blouses from the mid 2010's for dear life until i find something that is what they used to be ):

nothing makes me sadder than a fashion brand that i used to love so much that im on record saying i'd stock my whole wardrobe from there if i could- going so far from their roots (or getting bought out) to the point where they're unrecognizable and i literally dont even like their clothes anymore

#plumbabble #madewell im looking at you. dont fuck this up

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domesticadventures · 4 years ago

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as free as it wants to be. deancas, 1.7k. (ao3)

There’s something Dean’s missing.

He feels like he does sometimes when there’s a word on the tip of his tongue, when a smell calls up a memory he can’t quite place, when he sees a familiar-looking side character in a genre show and has to stop to find out what else the actor has been in on IMDB. He feels like that, but like it matters. Like he’s missing something important. He thinks that if he could just have a minute to sit still and think about it, if the end of the world could stop happening for one goddamn minute, he might be able to figure out what it is.

They’re home just for a night—tomorrow they’ll need to be back on the road, chasing down another lead. He’ll barely have time to rest, let alone think. He tells himself it’ll have to wait.

He stops in his room just long enough to change into his around-the-house clothes, but as he slips out of his flannel, something on his shelf catches his eye and everything clicks into place.

A lot of things in his life have been manufactured by an asshole God, current apocalypse included, and now he’s gonna manufacture a little scenario of his own.

He waits until they get through dinner, until Sam and Jack have cleared their plates and wandered off to turn in for the night. He moves to stand and Cas starts to open his mouth, probably to say something about how he’ll let Dean go, he must be tired.

Instead, Dean cuts him short. He nods at Cas’ empty bottle and says, “Another round while I bounce something off you?”

Cas’ aborted excuse turns into a small smile—puzzled, but not unpleasantly so. “Sure.”

“You know,” Dean says as he grabs a couple beers from the fridge, “back during the first apocalypse, when Chuck was still pretending he was just a prophet and not the literal actual God, I had this conversation with him, right?” Cas shifts in his seat, sits a little straighter, while Dean opens the bottles and slides one over to him. “I don’t remember all of it, but the part that matters is he said how the latest stuff he wrote about us got weird, like, Vonnegut weird. And I asked him, Cat’s Cradle Vonnegut or Slaughterhouse-Five Vonnegut? And he says, Kilgore Trout Vonnegut. He was talking about writing himself into the story. But I think he was really dodging the question.”

“Oh?” Cas says, as though only politely interested, as though the quiet, intent way he looks at Dean hasn’t always given him away.

“Yeah.” Dean pulls a book from the pocket of his robe—already old and worn when he got it from the library sale with some pocket change, now nearly falling apart at the spine from his own reading and rereading. He sets it on the table between them, taps a finger on the cover. “It’s Sirens of Titan Vonnegut.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Okay, well, did you get this one when Metatron dumped all that media on you?”

“Yes.”

“So you remember what happens in it?”

“As I recall, humanity’s entire existence was manufactured for the sole purpose of completing an inane task in service of more powerful beings.” Cas sighs, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “So I guess I see what you’re saying.”

“No, no. Well, I mean, yes. That’s what the book is about. But it’s not the point.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “So what’s the point, then?”

“Well,” Dean says, picking at the label of his beer bottle, “a lot of people like to quote that one line about loving whoever is around to be loved, but even that always seemed pretty cynical to me. It’s still about the lack of free will, about just taking whatever life throws in your path and making the best of it. But I think that kind of misses the mark. And you know, it’s really frustrating, actually, because you’d think you could just search for it. You’d think you could Google ‘Sirens of Titan quotes’ and it would pop right up, but it doesn’t. The whole goddamn point of the book and nobody seems to have bothered to put it up on Goodreads or whatever—”

“Dean,” Cas says. He sounds exasperated, but his small, indulgent smile says otherwise. “The point?”

“Right. So. I had to get my book down off the shelf and search for it.” He wipes his hands on his jeans, picks up the book and opens it to the page he’s dog-eared, clears his throat, and reads:

“‘I would be the last to deny,’” said Beatrice, reading her own work out loud, “‘that the forces of Tralfamadore have had something to do with the affairs of Earth. However, those persons who have served the interests of Tralfamadore have served them in such highly personalized ways that Tralfamadore can be said to have had practically nothing to do with the case.’”

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat again as he closes the book, “when I was, uh. When I was wondering what was real. You said we are. You said it like you had never been more sure of anything.”

He glances up at Cas just in time to see his expression shift. Cas has always seemed interested in whatever he has to say, even on the many occasions he’s chosen to be intentionally ridiculous—but there’s something different there now, something beyond his usual care and curiosity. There’s something else there that Dean recognizes, and he tries not to shy away from it like he always has.

“Yes,” Cas says. “I did.”

“I think maybe you’re right,” Dean says. He takes a steadying breath, reaches for his beer and rolls the damp bottle between his hands. “I’m not saying that whatever God threw at us, all the big beats of the story, I’m not saying that didn’t impact our lives. But the whole point is for him to be entertained. If it was a hundred percent scripted, he wouldn’t have been interested. He’ll put a gun in my hand and give me every reason to use it, but he won’t actually make me pull the trigger. He’s reacting to our choices just as much as we’re reacting to his. We figure one thing out and he’s right there to throw another wrench in the plan. Anything he can do to draw out the tension and keep the story going.”

“Sure,” Cas says, “that makes sense.”

“Right, so. I’ve kind of—I’ve just been going back over everything, our whole history, and looking at it in a new way, I guess. Not as someone living a life but as an author writing a story, or—or—a screenplay. You read enough books and watch enough movies and you get a feel for how things are supposed to go, you know? And there are just—there are so many times when we—I dunno. Like when—when you let all those souls go, right, or when you got your memories back after—after everything with Sam, or when you came back from Purgatory, or when you were human for the first time and here in the bunker.”

He can picture it, even now, the way Cas looked each of those times—his earnest contrition, his regret. His quiet joy. And he remembers, too, what he had felt, all those times where it seemed like they were on the edge of something, where he had that sense he gets sometimes when he watches a movie or a show or a book, something where he recognizes the beats, where he can say, all right, the characters have been through enough hardship, now, and here comes the climax and the resolution. Here’s the payoff.

“All those times,” he says, “I just—it felt like we were right there, you know? Like maybe we were about to turn a corner. Like maybe everything was finally going to be okay, and we could just…” He raises a hand in a helpless gesture, lets it fall to the table with a thunk.

“But there was always something,” Cas says. “Leviathan, Sam’s memories, Naomi, Gadreel and his ultimatum.”

“Exactly. There was always some shit that seemed to come out of nowhere to fuck things up again.” There was always something stepping in, he knows now, to deny them their denouement, no matter what they might have done on our own. “You ever—you ever think about how things might have been different?”

“I did,” Cas says. After a moment, he amends, “I do.”

“There are so many times I thought we had, I dunno, come to some sort of understanding. So many times where if we could just have had time to breathe, maybe instead of being trapped in whatever fucked up cycle of pain and betrayal and reconciliation Chuck wanted to see, maybe—maybe whatever is this is”—he gestures between them—“maybe it could have—” He looks at Cas, pleading, willing him to understand.

Quietly, Cas says, “Maybe it’s happened anyway, in spite of that.”

“Yeah?” And there it is, that same feeling he’s grown so used to: the hope that wells up in his chest, imagining how things might go, picturing the next step in the story.

“Yeah.”

Dean steels himself—lets himself be steeled by Cas’ certainty, now and always. He presses his palms to the table. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think God is the biggest fucking cockblock imaginable.”

A slow smile spreads across Cas’ face, amused and hopeful. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And I’m done with it.” Dean slides his beer and book out of the way, starts to lean forward—

“Wait,” Cas says, stopping him with a hand held up between them. He looks up and away from Dean, squinting as though he’s trying to see straight through the bunker to the world outside. “Let’s give it a second to see if Chuck is going to bring the bunker down on top of us—No?—Okay, then.”

Dean is still in the middle of rolling his eyes when Cas leans the rest of the way across the table and kisses him.

#spn #deancas #destiel #my fic

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ophelialoveshandsomemen · 3 years ago

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Cristo y Tú vivís en mi corazón.

Capítulo Dos.( second chapter.)

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, seizures, medical procedures, self indulgent use of an ABBA song, Catholicism, maybe a swear or two. If you are under 18…please go to sleep instead and do not read my works!!!!

Medikua; is Basque for Doctor. Espagnole is French for Spaniard. I realize he’s not a spaniard but hispanic however she doesn’t know that and espagnole can sorta mean someone who speaks spanish if you will.

And yeah, I used an ABBA song. Guilty pleasure of mine and -Fernando- just shouts romance with El Catorce for me, so voila! Enjoy!

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Medikua Hermenigilde Hortense, or Doc Hortense as he is more commonly known, is Isabeau's nearest neighbour from 6 and 3/4's of a mile away. A kind 88 year old man of Basque and French descent and the best medical man this side of the Atlantic, he came over to ask Isabeau if she could perhaps spare him an onion or two for his supper. Then promptly found her hunched over a strange, injured Hispanic man almost a km into her 'woods'. Luckily, he rode the donkey cart in. Making the delicate job of transporting said caballero back to the house much more stress free.

Isabeau sat on the floor of the cart, the ragged cotton quilt he keeps on his seat to fend off the cold now draped across her lap to cushion the patient's head. As his donkey walked the trail to her house, the doc turned his head towards the back. The stranger is still unconscious, and Isabeau gently brushes his hair from his forehead, with her right hand keeping steady pressure on his wounds.

That punctured lung is worrying him. Not because he doesn't have the equipment to treat such an injury. Of course he has the correct equipment, he is, after all, ex-military and he knows people, for God's sake. But because it's a punctured lung caused by a machine gunshot, something the good doctor can spot a mile away. Those are never pretty or easy to treat and almost always end fatally. How this young pup has stayed alive for this long is beyond him! Must be his guardian angel putting in much needed overtime...

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Isabeau has officially gone into shock. Or a panic attack. In this situation there can't be much difference, one is just as useless as the other. She vaguely wonders if it's a result of falling out of the cherry tree or of finding a badly wounded, Hispanic man in her woods. Both, in all honesty.

She still cradles his head in her lap and is monitoring his breathing almost constantly.

'"Doc, his breathing is getting to be quite laboured. Can I do something?"

Doc hears the heavy worry saturating her tone. And makes the donkey pick up his pace.

" Alright, try hanging his legs off the end of the cart, get his blood to rush to his feet instead of into his lungs. And settle his back fully on your lap to elevate his heart level even more. But do it slowly, girl. Slow and steady."

He turned back his head many times as he ordered her to ensure she didn't accidently jostle the boy wrong. He had noticed her complexion become paler. "Breathe, Isabeau, breathe! I don't need the both of you passed out in a donkey cart on me. I'm far too old to deal with this all by myself."

She wordlessly nodded. Her returning nausea didn't thank her for it. She subconsciously and minutely tightened her grip around the caballero's shoulders, consequentially pressing his scalp further against her stomach, mildly alleviating her need to lose her guts. She could feel his shallow breath in the crook of her left arm, quick, wheezing in and outs with a few of the inhales resulting in short choking fits. By now, both her arms and her naked thighs made her appear to be a human incarnation of a battlefield, stained scarlet with the lifeblood of young men, ( or of one young man, in this instance).

His heartbeat, Isabeau could faintly feel thrumming in a rhythm too slow and unsteady for her comfort.

She began to sing. Softly. For her comfort. For his comfort. In order to forget the pain in her head from the fall. In hopes to ground the wounded man in her arms. To gently guide him back to the land of the living through his sense of hearing. Isabeau knows from both her studies in university and her own brief dabblings in mild hypnosis and lucid subconsciousness that a person who has lost consciousness, either from sleep, or pain, or loss of blood, can still register, deep in the recesses of their mind, sounds and voices and even full conversations. But they especially hear singing.

So, Isabeau sings.

The melody is the first that pops up in her brain, a song from one of the numerous cd's she keeps in her 2001 Ford f-250 King Ranch. An ABBA Gold cd, if she recalls correctly. She can't remember all the words, so instead she hums when her mind is blank of lyrics.

Can you hear the drums, Fernando? I remember long ago another starry night like this.

They hit a tiny bump in the road, not even enough to bother the steed pulling the cart, but more than enough to send a jolt of pain coursing through the caballero.

In the firelight, Fernando

The pain noticeable in the wince upon his face, causing the girl to expect him to awaken soon. However much she dreads to see the pain etched on his brow, at least he would show more sign of life than now. She continues to hum.

You were singing to yourself and softly strumming your guitar!

A thought briefly flitters across her mind. She wonders if he plays guitar? Or perhaps he sings? Maybe his voice is strong, loud and boisterous. Or is it smooth and deep? Or he dances? Perhaps none of these and he prefers to sits in the sidelines and enjoy the talents of others instead...

And I'm not afraid to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry!

" Almost there cerisette, which door?" "Uh...the back garden door has no stairs and is the closest to my bedroom." "Oh, your bedroom huh!" "My bed's on the floor. Easier to care for him that way."

There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando!

Her chorus much slower and more weary than the original.

They were shining down for you and me, for liberty, Fernando!

The doctor steers the cart off the driveway and towards the house.

Though we never thought that we could lose, there's no regret.

They round the last corner of the house, stopping a few feet away from the door, back end turned to the door.

If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando!

******************************************************************************************* Three Hours Later....

Isabeau was exhausted.

They'd been barely successful in carrying the still unknown man into her bed before he slightly awoke, only for him to begin having seizures while she went away in her pickup to Doc's house, grabbing the direly needed equipment for the procedure. Mercifully, he'd only had two minor fits before Doc stabilized him enough to treat the wounds.

Which had taken nearly three hours.

She'd held his hand through most of it. But no one, including herself, could genuinely tell you if she'd done that for his comfort or her own...

She honestly can't recall much else.

She stood in the bathroom down the hall from her bedroom, furiously but tiredly scrubbing at the blood stubbornly caught beneath her fingernails, staining her hands, sticking to the plush hairs on her arms, seeped deep into the fabric of the old yellow plaid shirt she'd swapped her lacy 70's top for...

Her thoughts were disrupted by the good old doc gently placing his freshly washed hands upon her shoulder.

" Get some rest cerisette. The sun may still be awake but you shouldn't be. The caballero is safe now...and so are you. " He sighs. " I am going home for a few hours. Call me if you need me. But get some rest."

With that, Doc Hortense leaves the room. And yes, he did grab a proffered onion on the way.

*******************************************************************************************

She carefully pads across her own bedroom, silent as a Trappist monk, to not disturb her espagnole, as she's begun to call him in her mind. She decides against simply grabbing her sleep clothes and changing somewhere else. Instead she stays standing before her dresser, in full view of son espagnole if he were to awaken. Which he doesn't. She swaps her soiled plaid shirt and jeans shorts for a comfortable pair of well-worn navy flannel pants and a soft long sleeved beige cotton undershirt. No underpinnings either. Girl likes her freedom too much to subject herself to that.

Still a tad too wired up to fully rest, what with the time only being around 8:30 or so, Isabeau cautiously rummages through his minor belongings. Carelessly thrown to the side whilst his life was in danger, now she takes everything in her hands as if it's a precious object. She gingerly folds the white linen jacket, the torn beige button-up, the filthy knit cotton undershirt and the striped wool pants, putting them to the side to be washed later.

Next come the gun holsters and the bullet belts, made of beautifully well crafted leather, the stitching somehow immaculate. Without a doubt handmade. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Isabeau gets the barest nudge that there is no way in hell this was made within the last 50 years. They seem worn: however, they can't be older than a three or four years.

What intrigues her the most about the belts and the holsters, besides being nearly completely full, is the embroidered cross upon the pistol holster. No outlaw trusts that much in God, but no soldier dresses like this. Perhaps a revolutionary from Southern America way back...in...the...

She quickly makes the connection between the guns and the age of the leather and the medallion of La Virgen, the fact that he was shot by a machine gun, mass manufactured and distributed to many governments by Americans in the time she's thinking of.. She may be wrong, but an inkling tells her that she probably isn't. She walks hurriedly back to the bed, sits gently cross-legged on the side where she will rest and softly stares at her sleeping espagnole. Several minutes, or maybe hours, pass and then, she whispers, to the unconscious man, to the dark, to the angels, to God, to herself.

"There's a Cristero in my bed!"

________________________________________________________________

If you would like to be tagged let me know!

#el catorce #for greater glory #for greater glory fanfiction #victoriano 'el catorce' ramirez x ofc #Victoriano Ramirez #oscar isaac #character fandom #catholicism #tw; blood #tw; medical procedures #tw; mentions of seizures

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clothingflannel · 2 years ago

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Benefits of Using Flannel Towels for Skincare

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Helps you exfoliate

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A flannel towel gently exfoliates, helps removes dead skin, and keeps your pores clean. Thus, it helps your skin look visibly brighter and smoother, without the side effects of abrasive scrubs.

Effectively removes make-up

If you use an oil or a balm-based make-up remover, a flannel towel is a great substitute for your use-and-throw make-up removal cotton pads. Just apply the make-up remover on your face and wipe thoroughly with a flannel towel soaked in warm water.

See how effectively it removes all traces of make-up and keeps your skin squeaky clean!

Is environment-friendly

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#flannel clothing manufacturer #flannel clothing manufacturers #Flannel Clothing Manufacturers USA #flannel towels #flannel towels manufacturer #flannel towels supplier #flannel towels wholesale #how to find flannel clothing manufacturer #wholesale flannel towels

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elexica · 4 years ago

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Second Chance Christmas: {{ December 24 }}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832405/chapters/69340716 Christmas Eve is a lot more pleasurable this year.

Rating increased to Explicit for smut this chapter. If you would like to skip it, end the chapter at the grilled cheese.

Entire chapter under the cut.

When Joey rolled over to look at his cellphone, he was startled to see it was almost 10:30 am. How did he sleep in, until mid-morning, on Christmas Eve? It was impossible that the kids hadn’t awoken with the dawn, and absolutely impossible that they didn’t need some form of attention by now.

Maybe they’ve been kidnapped, Joey wondered to himself. That would be just his luck—the second Kaiba’s back, loved ones get kidnapped.

He looked out the French doors that lead to the master bedroom’s balcony. It wasn’t a bad view at all, and the snow was wafting down. It was soft, fluffy, powdery stuff, already accumulating on the handrail of the deck. Joey considered fighting the temptation to wander out, but decided to just take a peek outside.

He was instantly rewarded with the sight of Alexis braining Atticus with a snowball.

They were dressed warmly, if a bit mismatching. From the bright red glove on one of Atticus’ hands, and the black mitten on the other, someone wasn’t able to find the right counterpart in time.

That someone was looming a bit off to the side, like he always did. Kaiba was crouching in the snow too, busy at work making something. Joey couldn’t tell at this distance, and it would be pretty harsh of him to join in the snowball fight. Joey knew from experience that Kaiba didn’t half-ass snowball fights and had killer aim.

Joey had only managed to keep up because he thought shoving snow down the back of Kaiba’s shirt was the funniest thing in the world. The full body shiver and searing rage it inspired were unparalleled.

Instead, today it looked more like he was on hand to intervene if Alexis got too invested and owned her older brother too hard. And like he was doing something of his own, playing with the snow.

Was Seto Kaia building a snow man? Joey squinted, but the white snow was too bright and the packed snow was too indistinguishable from the freshly fallen drifts for him to actually be able to tell.

Joey felt some snowflakes collecting in his own fluffy hair, and with a shake of his head decided he could do a better job spectating from downstairs.

A latte was sitting on the kitchen counter. The foam had somewhat disintegrated, melting back into the coffee and milk mixture. At first, Joey assumed Kaiba had just left it behind for himself when he had been probably unceremoniously dragged into the falling snow by their little miscreants.

But upon close inspection, the foam had a sort of heart pattern on the top, made from pouring the steamed milk just so. Latte art had been an interest of Kaiba’s for about a day several years back—he had been convinced that he could replicate the delicate pouring in a robotic attachment added to the espresso machine, which could be repurposed to replace certain precision work in the Duel Disk manufacturing line. In the process, he had gotten very good at making them by hand as well.

Could the mug actually be for Joey? It didn’t look like Kaiba had sipped from it.

Kaiba was probably just showing off to the kids, Joey thought to himself. Even so, it melted his heart in his chest just a little bit. Even if it wasn’t for him, Joey was going to taste it. It was on Joey’s counter now, right?

The milk foam was soft against his lips, sweet little bubbles popping on his tongue as he sipped, and the coffee was still warm. He could feel the heat of it course down his throat.

He took another long drink of it, and it really was that good. If Kaiba had a love language, Joey pondered midway through another gulp, it probably would be fancy coffee.

Joey took the mug out with him, the warmth of the mug soothing in his hands as he wandered to the backyard. The chill in the air hit him in the face, instantly, and he wished he was wearing more than night clothes, his bathrobe, and slippers.

The family hadn’t really moved since he’d seen them from the master bedroom balcony.

Watching Seto play was always a source of fascination. Sure, it had been infuriating back in the day. The seriousness and anger he took to Duel Monsters, even when it wasn’t him dueling, was unpleasant at the time. But over the years, it had become endearing and intriguing. Sometimes, early on, Joey would even sit near Kaiba, during Yugi’s duels especially, just to hear the commentary. Kaiba was thoughtful and smart as hell, and his take on the game was as insightful as it was overly intense.

When Kaiba played other games, it was even more fun. Before they had met, Joey had never fathomed that someone could be completely engrossed in Operation!, or bring complete vitriol to Connect Four. Discovering that Guess Who could be played through carefully crafted insults to each figure’s appearance was delightful.

It had been one of the things Joey had kind of been looking forward to seeing in Kaiba when they had kids.

But… things don’t always pan out the way you want them to.

Joey took another sip from the coffee—Kaiba had put some sugar in it too, to Joey’s surprise. It had to be for him. Just that thought lit a spark in his chest that warmed him in a way that his bathrobe and flannel pajamas couldn’t.

Joey refocused on Kaiba, trying to discern exactly what the other man was doing in the snow. He was almost on his knees in the snow, and using his black-gloved hands to shape something. The packed snow was rather elegantly shaped, and even if it had been years since he had seen one in person, those white scales were incredibly iconic.

“Ay, Kaiba, is that?!”

With a finishing touch of black pebble eyes on the modestly-sized snow-dragon, Kaiba turned to face him dead-on.

Kaiba’s smirk was almost as haughty as it had been when he was a teen. He stood proudly in his winter coat, hands on his hips before the three-foot snow-dragon and pointed back at Joey with a flourish. “Attack with white lightning!”

Like magic, the kids turned on Joey. Snowballs were launched in his general direction and the kids made what Joey assumed were supposed to be dragon noises.

Joey was fortunate—the deck was pretty far from where they were playing, and the snowballs exploded harmlessly on the bannister or the porch in front of him. Alexis’s little screech was especially precious, even if her throw wasn’t.

Joey laughed so naturally that he didn’t realize he was doing it. When he composed himself again, he dramatically raised one hand, and pointed back. “I play my trap card,” Joey shouted into the fray, revolving enough to point at the kitchen behind him. “I’m making pancakes!”

Indeed, the promise of pancakes was more powerful than the lure of pretending to be dragons, and the kids cheered as they headed in.

Kaiba trailed the kids, looking oddly contemplative. Joey was about to leave and make good on his promise, but he was struck by the way Seto had his lips pressed together. He really looked like he was trying not to say something.

Joey gave him an expectant look, the space to say whatever it was that he was thinking.

“I never knew it could be this way.”

Joey tilted his head, blond hair flopping to the side. “What do you mean?”

Kaiba walked closer, within a few inches of Joey. With his thumb, Kaiba brushed a few snowflakes from the shorter man’s cheek. “I… didn’t realize that life could be this free.” And without any other comment or discussion, Kaiba composed himself and brushed past Joey. Leaving Joey with his now-chilly latte and distant thoughts.

…

Time slipped by quickly, the sands of the holiday magic hourglass rushing down as the finale approached.

The family had a holographic call with Mokuba and Yui, who expressed again how grateful they were to have the kids at their wedding. If Mokuba was surprised to see Joey and Kaiba alongside each other, not fighting, he didn’t show it.

After three years away from the high technology, Joey kind of saw the appeal of the holograms with fresh eyes. It was pretty neat to see Mokuba again, in three dimensions, glowing just a little in his living room. While Mokuba was patiently listening to Atticus explain how they were playing dragons this morning, Joey was just taking it in.

Then they sat down for another round of Christmas movies—this time all the classics. First was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which Kaiba insisted had an overly mature message, that being unique is respected only when someone else can profit off of it. Then was Frosty the Snowman, which Kaiba objected to on the grounds that it sent mixed messages about mortality. “It is like watching ‘All Dogs Go to Heaven’ if you actually had to watch the dog—”

“Kaiba, it’s fine, he’s a snowman.” Joey interrupted.

“He’s clearly sentient. He’s aware of his surroundings. Do you think he cannot feel his body melt—”

“Next movie!” Joey announced, clicking away.

Kaiba completely left the room for Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, which was a pity, given how much of the runtime was dedicated to business decisions.

Kaiba only returned later, to poke his head around the corner and say that he had finished making dinner.

Joey wasn’t sure what to expect from Kaiba for a holiday dinner. Frankly, the times he had seen Kaiba cook were few and far between—he had helped out yesterday, but otherwise it was something of an informed ability. Kaiba said he could cook, but Joey supposed the proof would be in the literal pudding.

When they were dating, Kaiba was usually working and they would get take out or go out to dinner far more frequently than doing dinner at home. Joey couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the expectation of family meals had appeared—maybe after Atticus was born? Whenever it had happened, the family chef had appeared like magic.

Joey realized that maybe Kaiba had no idea what Joey’s cooking was like outside of this week either. That was a disturbing thought. How long could you spend with someone without ever learning what their cooking tasted like.

Joey was in for a pleasant surprise. It certainly wasn’t fancy, but tomato soup from a can—garnished with a basil leaf—and a decent stack of not-burnt grilled cheese sandwiches were waiting. With the snow falling gently outside, and the reflection of a few twinkling Christmas lights draped around the kitchen, it was a very pleasant scene.

It felt like too much to demand, but Joey bit into a perfectly buttery sandwich—crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside—and thought maybe he would like it if Kaiba cooked every night.

…

Finally, the kids were instructed that they needed to have an early bed time, as part of the last ditch efforts to convince Santa that they were good kids.

With certain designated cookies set out and carrots left for the reindeer, the kids were headed to bed.

“So… we didn’t wrap the presents last night,” Joey announced. Kaiba nodded, and they grimly turned toward the master bedroom to contemplate their fate.

The present pile was absolutely not representative of what Joey had purchased on his singular trip to the mall. At some point, quite deviously, Kaiba must have procured another thirty presents, through some assistant or something—Joey really could account for most of the time, and had them hidden in Joey’s secret present hiding place (unsurprisingly the master bedroom’s closet).

As a result, even with the two of them working to wrap presents, it had been almost three hours and they were still at it. Kaiba was frustratingly slow: he was both meticulous about straight edges and perfect tape amounts, and just slightly terrible at wrapping. It was brutally obvious he had never had to do it before, so even though the theory was easy for him, his long fingers struggled slightly with execution. It made the process even slower because Joey kept getting distracted, watching Kaiba’s long fingers fiddle with the paper and the tape.

“We can take a five minute break, we’ve been pretty busy this week,” Joey announced, stepping away from the supplies covered desk and flopping back on the bed.

Seto walked over and sat on the edge of pensively before curling into the fluffy duvet. “It’s true. Whatever doesn’t get wrapped can be saved for birthday presents.”

Joey graced him with a skeptical look.

“What?! You said you wanted it to be lower key,” Kaiba snapped back, offended. Kaiba looked down at his hands, tape resting on his pinky as he tried to get the fold just so on a small packet that was obviously a Duel Monsters cards booster pack.

The bags that were omnipresent under Kaiba’s eyes were etched just a little deeper than before. “A five minute break… sounds wise.”

Joey flopped backward onto the bed, avoiding the wrapping paper. Kaiba relaxed backwards as well.

Five minutes passed, and then another five. The bed was really soft and cozy. Joey knew it was much more comfortable than the guest room bed, and Kaiba was burrowing in somewhat.

The other man really did look peaceful, brown hair falling into his glasses, eyes finally closed and relaxed.

Two hours later, a quick glance at the bedside clock warned Joey that it was almost eleven at night. The lights had been extinguished, but the curtains hadn’t been drawn, leaving the room with a hazy glow from the bright snowscape and moon beyond the French doors.

Joey had dozed off on the bed and like magnets, Seto had ended up so close to him. Joey really hadn’t expected to wake up to the other man clinging to him for dear life, but it felt so nice. A pleasant weight, holding him, making him feel treasured. God only knew where his glasses had ended up.

Seto’s breath ghosted across Joey’s collarbone. “I missed you.” It was soft, sleep addled, and entirely sincere. His breaths were deep and warm, as if he was taking in everything about the situation that he could, inhaling the sleepy cozy scent of his partner, the soft detergent smell the dryer had left on Joey’s pajamas, the pine scented holiday candle that had been inadvertently left to burn for the last two hours.

Cuddling again felt so magical, after so long. Joey’s hand caught in Seto’s hair, soft brown strands running across his rougher fingers. His nails scraped lightly across Seto’s scalp, and Seto practically purred. It was enough to make the heat rise in Joey’s cheeks.

“I don’t want to let go of you,” Seto admitted to Joey. Seto looked up from where he was snuggled into Joey’s chest, eyes softer than Joey remembered them.

“Then don’t,” Joey answered, pulling Seto up so that their faces were perfectly aligned.

Staring into Kaiba’s eyes was always like this. It hit so deep, struck Joey right on the inside of his sternum. Something in the blue depths broke his heart every single time.

And Joey pulled him into a kiss. Seto’s mouth tasted the way that it always had. With his large hands grabbing at Joey’s back, clutching at the fabric, it felt the same way that it did before. When Seto deepened the kiss, when his tongue plunged into his mouth, nothing had changed.

But Seto pulled away, marking that Joey hadn’t truly time traveled. “I… are you sure you want to do this? I’m leaving tomorrow, Jounouchi.” Seto was so serious. The flush in his cheeks was just painted onto his ex-husband, the rest of his face was schooled into a business-like countenance. It almost made Joey forget the familiar hand on his hip, thumb stroking over his side.

Joey smiled, but he could feel the pinpricks behind his own eyes. “Then you better not ruin tonight, huh?”

Kaiba smirked, falling back into his role. “As you should well know,” Kaiba dived into Joey’s neck, sucking and biting something fierce, “I always rise to a challenge.”

Kaiba’s hand drifted up, grasping for Joey’s shirt and tearing it off. “If I remember correctly,” Kaiba continued, crawling down his body and quickly arriving at his cock, “and I always do,” Kaiba’s eyes flashed up to meet Joey’s, devious and dirty be fore pulling down Joey’s pajama pants, exposing his dick to the tense air of their bedroom, “I have some reliable methods for ensuring this is worth your time.”

“You talk too—” Joey attempted to complain, but Kaiba’s mouth on his hardening penis cut him off. A shock of lust zapped through is body, reaching the ache in his chest.

As Seto sucked gently—cheeks hollow and eyes closed in focus, Joey felt the lust course through him. But also a sense of comfort, of safety, and of loss. Each jolt of pleasure also triggered something cruel and bittersweet.

Joey tried to hold off, knowing that the sooner he came, the sooner it would end. The fantasy of having his husband back, adoring him in the most intimate way, would be over, even as the pangs of pleasure rippled through him.

But it was hard. Kaiba was an obsessive man, and when pleasuring Joey was his focus, he was meticulous in mastering its intricacies. One of Kaiba’s hands was caressing his inner thigh, alternating worshipful touches and soft, stinging scratches that dragged needy whines from Joey’s lips.

Just when Joey was certain he wouldn’t be able to hold on for any longer, the pressure building inside, threatening to spill out, Kaiba disengaged. A bit of pre-cum mixed with spit bridged between his plush lips and Joey’s rock hard cock. The light glinted off of the dew on Kaiba’s mouth, and accentuated the way that his lips were trembling.

Kaiba slid up, rolling over far enough to reach the top drawer of the night stand. And, just as if no time had passed, a bottle of lube was waiting for him. Joey’s eyes lingered on the way Kaiba poured it along his hands, leaving them glistening in the reflection of the moonlight off of the freshly fallen snow.

Kaiba removed his own sweatpants, and Joey’s eyes could see how devastatingly hard Kaiba was. The full body shiver that ran through him just touching himself in order to lube his own cock. And when he looked back over at Joey, the determination in his eyes was so intense, it was almost scary.

Kaiba crawled over, hands framing Joey’s head, heat radiating off of his body in hot waves, cocks threatening to touch. “I want you so bad, Jounouchi,” he whispered, voice husky from sucking him off.

“Then take me, Kaiba. You never had a problem taking what you want before,” Joey issued the challenge with a hint more menace than he had realized was there.

And the restraint was lifted. Joey hadn’t really realized there ever was any restraint, but with Kaiba’s fingers plunged into his tight opening, searching and quickly finding the familiar magic spot, maybe his partner had been holding back.

With only so many desperate thrusts of his fingers, Kaiba withdrew them. Joey almost moaned at the loss, wanting to tell his partner there was no rush. That they had enough time for everything, make love like they used to—languid and peaceful, wasteful of time.

Any complaints were silenced as he felt Kaiba’s thick cock enter him. Joey was lost in the sensations, swimming in the lust. The only things he could keep track of were the thrusts, the feeling of Seto’s hips and thighs rhythmically moving against his own. The white hot pulse of Kaiba coming inside of him, and that perfect moment, when he felt full and complete. Finally coming himself, untouched, semen spilling over his own stomach.

Even though it was sticky, and would soon be uncomfortable, he hated when Kaiba withdrew. His heart ached when he handed him a damp towel from the in suite, and when Kaiba gathered his pajamas, prepared to walk to the guest room.

Joey had to go back in his memory all the way to their earliest days to remember Kaiba getting up immediately after sex. Once their relationship was, well, a relationship and not a duel to see who could keep the connection more casual, Kaiba loved to be close afterwards. Even if he didn’t necessarily snuggle, he was usually present, sharing small smiles and holding Joey until he fell asleep.

“Don’t.”

Kaiba froze. And then he looked back, more surprised than he should have been.

The look on his face sent Joey to the early days of their courtship, when Kaiba would wear that same expression as he gathered up arm-belts as he bailed from Joey’s shit apartment back in Domino.

But that they had shared this exact bedroom for six years.

Joey hadn’t even changed up the pictures on the walls—shamefully enough, a wedding photo still sat on the dresser. Their trapped smiling faces judging the messy entanglement that their romance had become.

“Don’t leave me,” Joey choked out. Don’t leave me again went unspoken. He didn’t have that bad of a time saying how he felt, but Kaiba always tested the limits, made him want to withdraw into himself. It took some kind of bravery to be open with his feelings now, and it swelled in his chest. “I want you to stay the night, here.”

Kaiba nodded slowly, and dressed in his pajamas. He sat down on the bed carefully, cautious, like he hadn’t slept there a thousand times before. It almost seemed like he didn’t trust the mattress not to turn to dust beneath him.

And then he laid in bed like a corpse in a coffin, careful to bind his arms to his waist.

With a deep sigh, Joey said, “Ah come on. We just fucked, Kaiba. You can uh… you can touch me, if you wanna.”

Kaiba looked over. In the darkness, the glow of the moon-touched snow glinted in his eyes, sparking something mysterious. “We… did.” He looked a little bit like a cryptid, something not quite of this world, trapped in a reality he couldn’t totally understand.

“I don’t regret it,” Joey said, though his voice betrayed a bit of his uncertainty. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hn.” Kaiba scoffed.

“Yeah, I shoulda seen that one coming,” Joey said, leaning back against his pillow. It was somehow entirely foreign to have another man in his bed, and yet also familiar. Like Kaiba had never been there before, but also like he had never left.

The warmth was almost that of a phantom sensation—almost close enough to touch, just far enough away to feel like a figment of his imagination.

And then, somewhat suddenly, Joey felt the familiar hands of his ex-husband wrap around his arm. Just like that, Kaiba crept back into his space, foreheads almost touching, straight brown hair entangling in unruly blond strands. Joey could feel each exhale of Kaiba’s against his cheek. They were soft and rhythmic, pantomiming sleep.

Joey was surprised when he didn’t tense up at the contact. When they both melted into the shared cozy warmth under the quilt. When his own breathing turned more evenly paced.

He was falling asleep in that most literal sense, the experience of complete relaxation where one sinks through the mattress and into the dream world.

Somewhere in that sinking, the purgatory between sleeping and wakefulness, Joey could have sworn he heard Kaiba whisper “I still love you” in his gravelly tone.

But it could have been just a dream.

#puppyshipping #Violetshipping #my fic #seto kaiba #Kaiba Seto #Jounouchi Katsuya #Joey Wheeler #update schedule is hitting the point where the chapters are posted on the dates when they occur.#that's fun and sexy #right??

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cosmicclownboy · 4 years ago

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Michael should have seen this coming. It was a chaotic idea from start to finish he doesn’t know why he caved in the first place. Yes, yes he does it’s that little soft hum Alex makes when he's filling the food dishes it makes his heart catch in his throat. Mans a freaking Dodo video doesn't have a cat or dog but wants to make sure the strays of Roswell have food if need be. Alex has a thing for lost souls and strays he knows this better than anyone. Michael always wondered what a home would be like. At 28 years old Michael knows what home is. It’s the steady beat of the man he loves tenderly wrapping his arms around his waist pressing kisses at whatever skin he can reach. His home is the way Alex traces circles into his skin or how he practised chords on his hands and legs. Or how he softly rakes his fingers through his curls the tenderness, joy and unconditional love he never assumed he could have. And against all odds, he knows Alex feels the same too.

It's not always easy their relationship isn't a magic cure for the pain they've endured. Some days he comes home to find Alex's eyes vacant thumbing pictures of friends he's lost. Some days he's just silent curled on his side of the bed and he knows in those moments being there is what matters he'll reach out his hand to Alex and just allow the silence to guide him. So if Alex wants to host the strays of Roswell he can. He’s not going to question it. Anything to bring that smile on his face but that doesn’t mean Michael can’t be sceptical about this entire concept. He’s seen feral cats in action they are lethal little assholes. And he really doesn’t want to come home after a gruelling day of work to his boyfriend covered head to toe in scratches. Alex has enough scars. Over the week two cats and a dog show up. Alex has a camera on a bird box across the road so he can see what’s happening wanting to observe and see whether or not any need medical attention. Michael can’t leave this question unasked after a month. “So are we stepping in or just spying on them ?” “I waited a month into you using the tool shed before I came in. They need to know they can trust us. The gates open if they get curious.” To neither of their surprise, it’s the dog, a sleek black pit bull that makes his presence known first. He smells the bacon Michael’s grilling and he’s curious about the sound of guitar strings. When it comes to animals he knows Alex has zero resolve but who's he kidding he's not got a lot of resolve either. He's got cuts around his back that concern the both of them and it takes no less than fifteen minutes with the help of Forest to squeeze him in at the vet. He's unchipped and scared. Alex softly strokes his ears and paws whilst the vet works on him.

Michael isn't an idiot he knew the moment Alex set the bowls outside he'd end up taking some in. Guess they have a dog now.

“We are not naming our dog Jar Jar Binks, Michael” Alex looks at him disgusted and betrayed prying the sleeping dog off his legs into his waiting arms. Not that the dog seems to mind he immediately places his head into Alex's neck and does a little whiny noise. “You were playing the Star Wars theme on the guitar when he started to trust us and he responded to Jar Jar this morning.” For that, he gets a slow blink and a head tilt. “He was responding to the bacon you were holding behind your back, Guerin. If your going to name him after a Star Wars character there are infinitely better characters. Quite frankly I'm offended that the first character you directly chose to name this sweet boy after is Jar Jar. Look at him hasn't he suffered enough?" At this, the dog in question blinks his eyes open and he's met with the soft pleading eyes of his two boys. Like he would.

After a three hour conversation where they pitched several names of the star wars equation, they notice the pit bull wags it’s tail anytime Jedi is mentioned it seemed the little guy didn't care about being called Obi or Luke but Jedi he likes. "Would you look at that Guerin, wants to be a Jedi just like his daddy" Well, he can't argue with that especially when he finds out later that night that ten-year-old Alex once told Greg he wanted to marry a Jedi when he was older. Jed it is. And yes Alex will marry a Jedi when he's older he's already working on that plan.

Having a dog means that Isobel rocks up one-morning sunshades on coffee in hand with a binder of dog clothes options. There are several subcategories and he's just questioning why or when his sister found the time to manufacture this thing. "Now don't worry I already have five outfits in my bag for my nephew to try on and I didn't trust either one of you to know how to dress him. Now show me, my nephew" The way Isobel glides into the house could make you think she owns the place and as he closes the door and catches up to his sister she's already got Jed wrapped around her finger of which contains peanut butter. Within ten minutes the living room becomes a catwalk where Jed is proudly strutting across in outfits. "Wait. This one's my personal favourite it's called pawcanic look at his little apron it's so cute. And look he's so happy"

A week later he comes back from work seeing Jed decked out in flannel tucked into his boyfriend's hoodie. Michael's flicking through his phone until he gets to his camera. He's going to make sure the house is filled with pictures of the three of them.

#I started this months ago whoops #malex #malexfic #me: anyway Michael gets into photography

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sophfic27 · 4 years ago

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I wrote a short story for class, and I really want to post it.

Don’t You Want to Know the Truth?

Tami’s scuffed boots pound on the pavement, disturbing puddles as they go. Rain and sweat fix strands of her dark hair to her forehead, and her clothes are by now completely soaked, and the cuffs of her jeans are filthy with mud. She hugs her camera, wrapped in a plastic bag, to her chest to avoid dropping it. Ahead of her, the lights are still flashing. The fight isn’t over yet.

Good. Tami hasn’t chased them for two blocks to miss her latest On the Scene scoop. Tami turns the corner and comes to a stop to take in the scene quickly. The battle had moved to a street between the Larimer Hotel and the skyscraper office building across from it. Framed between the buildings is Light Blaze, dramatically poised, floating midair, her glow illuminating the rain that falls around her. Tami raises her camera and captures the perfectly framed image of the famous heroine and moves to duck behind a car to watch the fight safely and continue to take pictures.

Light Blaze stares at the skyscraper which has a gaping hole in the front. Tami keeps her camera ready for the villain thrown there to inevitably jump out and attack Light Blaze. Sure enough, a few moments later, the frog-themed villain, Tadpole leaps out of the building, aiming for Light Blaze. The heroine flicks her wrist, easily sending the villain to the ground with her light shield. Tami snaps another photo of Tadpole pathetically sprawled on the pavement below Light Blaze, graceful and majestic as ever. After that, it seems the fight is over, as the glowing hero floats slowly to the ground where she grabs Tadpole by the front of his shirt and heaves him up, until he’s eye level with her elaborate domino mask. Light Blaze snatches a device from his belt, crushes it, and drops him back to the ground just as sirens draw closer to the scene. Tami looks behind her and sees a barrage of police cars turning the corner. She turns back to the hero and villain and finds that Light Blaze has taken off. The police who have turned up run out to arrest Tadpole, and Tami takes her cue to leave as well. As she slinks past the police cars, back to her apartment, she notices that the rain had stopped already.

On her walk home, she starts to mentally compose her story about how renowned heroine, Light Blaze, has once again saved the city, this time from Tadpole’s evil, although odd plan to flood the city and turn everyone into frogs. With her story mostly laid out, her thoughts turn to where they usually do: Light Blaze. Tami has been writing about the hero ever since she became publicly active almost five years ago, and in all that time, she’s seemingly no closer to finding the mysterious woman’s identity. Over the last few years, it had become a secret obsession for Tami, but the heroine’s light abilities and disguise made it difficult to discern any specific identifiable features, and she had expertly avoided Tami’s every attempt to trap her into an interview. Tami was very good at finding the truth. This particular struggle gnawed at her constantly, like an itch she can’t scratch, no matter how hard she tries to find it.

The worst part is she feels like the truth is right in front of her. It aggravates her as she suspects she could be missing something obvious, but with so little to go on, she instead finds herself drifting off deep in thought, often drawing wild conclusions for the sake of having any theories at all.

Maybe she doesn’t have a real name, she postulates, though I don’t know what she would do with the rest of her time. She’s probably no one, just some inconspicuous girl who works in the city. If that’s the case, I’ll probably never know who she is, the same old concern rises up unwanted. Can’t hurt to try, though. I don’t care if I don’t ever know who she is, I’m not going to give up over something like that. I’ve spent too much energy on this now. And, who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe I know her-

“Tami!” a shout cuts through her thoughts. Tami starts, almost knocking over her smoothie, and looks across at her friend. Jean shakes her head, her dyed blue waves bouncing with the motion, “you coulda just told me I was boring you,” she says with a chuckle.

“You weren’t!” Tami protests suddenly, “sorry, I just zoned out there for a minute.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Jean quips, raising her own purple smoothie to her lips. She quirks an eyebrow and her smile falls slightly, “you’re thinking about her again, huh?”

Tami casts a look at the overly colorful smoothie stand menu, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tami looks back at Jean, who is giving her incredulous look, “sure you don’t. She’s a literal superhero that no one has talked to, you don’t have to throw yourself a pity party just because you can’t get an interview.” Tami rolls her eyes and tries to speak before being interrupted by Jean again, “you’ve gotten plenty of other interviews before,” Jean starts counting on her fingers, “like the one with the Scarlet Sentinel-”

“He talks to everyone,” retorts Tami.

Jean holds up her finger to stop Tami and continues, “Dark Titan, Braveheart, Silver Shield, Hell, you even got one with the Defender for Pete’s sake.”

Tami shrugs, “ok, sure, that one was impressive,” she admits.

“So why are you hung up on the one who doesn’t talk to anyone ever? I mean seriously,” she takes a sip as if to punctuate her point, “Light Blaze has never given out an interview. Not one.”

“Exactly!” Tami slams her palms on the table. She looks around and grits her teeth in embarrassment, and continues, “I mean aren’t you curious?” Jean sighs, but Tami pushes on, “’Cause you’re totally right, she has never given out a single interview. She’s been out her saving the city for how long?”

She stops, prompting Jean to answer. Jean rolls her eyes, “like five years,” she half sighs, officially giving up on convincing her friend.

“Yeah,” she takes another sip, “five years, and still no one knows anything about her. That’s totally weird, right?”

“Maybe she’s shy.” Jeans leans back in her chair, her brown hands combing through blue hair to put it in a ponytail.

“Yeah, whatever, she’s a superhero, sorry to say it, but she doesn’t get to be ‘shy’. I want to talk to her, find out more about her.”

“What, is this a date?” Jean jokes.

“Stop trying to change the subject, I mean it. Who is she? Is she human or is she an alien or something? How did she get her powers? We have an origin story for everyone else, where’s hers?”

Jean frowns, “well she can’t exactly tell you who she is. Secret identities and all that. And why do you need an origin story for her?”

“Don’t you want to know the truth?” Tami’s brown eyes bear into Jean’s, as if challenging her.

Jean stares back, “I don’t know. I don’t really care. She’s still going to do her job either way.”

Tami blinks. She studies her friend, her caramel skin and her blue hair with dark brown roots, her eyes blaze amber, almost glowing from the way the light hits them. She wore a black tee-shirt, and a teal flannel jacket she got not long after they met. Tami knew Jean better than anyone. She is suddenly hit by the weight of the stare Jean gives her and realizes that she should give it up. Jean doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Tami shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath, leaning back in her chair. Finally, she speaks up again, “well I do,” she says, gentler than she had been. “And I bet a lot of other people would like to know more about her, too.”

She looks back up at Jean, who has pulled the lid off her cup to stir the smoothie left at the bottom. Tami can smell the berry from across the table. “You know how I feel, Jean, I want to share the truth with people. I think they deserve to know.”

Jean puts down her straw and looks up again, the mirth returning to her eyes, “yeah, yeah, and you’ll stop at nothing to find that truth. I know you too well, Tami, but when are you going to take a break?”

“I don’t need a break. I like my work,” Tami starts to dig at the bottom of her own smoothie.

“Yeah, well,” Jean glances at her phone, “my break is almost over, I’ve got to get back to work.” Tami nods as Jean pulls her purse onto her shoulder and stands. “Good talk, T,” Jean says.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you soon?” Tami says.

“Count on it,” Jean winks as she makes her way to the door.

Tami mulls over her talk with Jean. She can understand that not everyone is quite as information hungry as she is, but she still struggles to understand Jean’s general disinterest in the extraordinary.

For the next few days, she works on other stories, but Light Blaze is never far from her mind. Soon, she comes upon a case that’s right up her alley: an ad campaign that’s a thinly veiled front for the latest Villainous Plot of the Week.

She finds herself sneaking through an old, creepy warehouse. In other words, it’s a typical Friday for Tami Sato. The whole place is dark, and a thick musty scent hangs in the air. Her boots scuff on the ground, and she carefully shifts her balance to quiet her footsteps. Somewhere ahead, there is a rhythmic clanging, and she pushes ahead to find its source. All around, there are shapes of old machinery draped in plastic, signs too faded and rusted to read, and moldy wood benches falling apart. Her eyes sweep every inch of the dilapidation. She lifts her camera to take a picture of one of the signs that reads Microchip Manufacturing. Interesting coincidence, she thinks, that this is the only one I can actually read.

She’s startled from her musing by another distant clanging. Tami presses on, pushing open a door that leads to a balcony that overlooks the main factory. She kneels near the wall, staying low to avoid being seen by the henchmen below. They all wear uniforms to emulate their leader, the Circus Freak. She snaps a couple pictures of the scene, and looks around of the villain himself, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Tami narrows her eyes, and she feels a prickle on the back of her neck. Something’s wrong. She turns to look behind her.

“Boo.” The creepily painted face of Circus Freak is inches away from her own. She jumps and falls back as he cackles loudly, and her vision goes dark as he covers her head with a sack.

The next few minutes are confusing and disorienting. Her hands are tied behind her back, and she is jostled and moved. Tami protests angrily, but no one speaks to her directly. Finally, she can see again, and she finds herself bound to a pole on top of the warehouse. Fantastic. She’s officially become the cliché damsel in distress. Circus Freak circles her, smiling creepily. Tami frowns and sighs exasperatedly. “Since we’re up here,” she starts, hoping to at least get an interview out of the situation, “you might as well tell me what you want with me. From what I’ve heard, taking hostages isn’t really your M.O.”

Circus Freak cackled some more, “no it’s not, but it’s a special occasion!” He says. She quirks an eyebrow. A strong gust of wind blows past, and she finds herself grateful to be fixed to the post as she looks down at the ground below her with a shudder. Circus Freak seemed unphased by the wind.

“What’s the occasion then?” she tries to ignore the dizzying height.

He draws closer to her again, and grins manically. “It’s a big day for me, I just needed someone to keep Ms. Lite Brite off my back, while I finish the job.” He starts to make his way to the doors that leads back down to the warehouse.

He leaves her alone, and she leans her head against the pole. “Cool, so I’m a distraction.”

She looks down again, and gulps. “Hope I’m a quick distraction.”

Nearly an hour passes, and Tami is freezing. She started hearing fighting below her several minutes ago, so she was hoping that meant she’d be getting down soon. She hears a new commotion and looks down to the ground where she sees a stream of henchmen leaving the building. That’s… not good. If she knew anything from years of being a journalist following the activity of superheroes, she knew that when henchmen are evacuating, it probably meant that you should, too. If this building went down with her on top of it… well, she hoped it wouldn’t come down to that.

Sure enough, a few moments later she hears a boom from inside the warehouse. The roof shakes, and pole waves. Tami swallows nervously. More booms and shaking from the warehouse go on for the next few minutes, and she waits anxiously as she watches the roof begin to crack, and the pole she’s tied to becomes less and less sturdy. Wind whips at her face, and she struggles against the rope on her hands, when the roof suddenly gives way.

Her heart stops for a moment and her face goes white with terror as she begins to plummet. The pole disappears from behind her and the wind continues to whip at her. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out. Tami is enveloped by the darkness and she squeezes her eyes shut when she thinks she’s getting close to the ground.

Then she stops falling. She can feel arms around her shoulders and under her knees. Her eyes are still shut, but she can see a glow through her eye lids. She opens her eyes one at a time, anxiously looking down. Her eyes widen at the sight of the ground only a hundred feet below. She turns to look at her rescuer. Her glow nearly blinds Tami after being in the dark night for so long, but she squints to get her first close look at the heroine.

The light blue domino mask has silver swirls etched into it, and her hair glows a similar shade of blue. Her whole face shines, as she looks at Tami.

Tami gapes for a minute, and finally comes to her senses enough to ask, “so how do you feel about interviews?”

The sound of sirens draw closer and Light Blaze turns to look toward the source. This is usually the part where Light Blaze takes off, and Tami wonders if she will do so again, just drop her off and fly away. But instead Light Blaze flies off with Tami still clutched in her arms. Tami’s heart stops briefly as she realizes what’s happening, and she reflexively wraps her arms around the hero’s neck, trying desperately to feel more secure as she flies hundreds of feet over the ground. She looks down and watches the remains of the rope that had been tying her hands twisted through the air, falling away to the ground. She looks at the cop cars arriving where they had left and the top of the now destroyed warehouse. She looks toward the city and sees the tops of buildings and lights shining below. Tami tries to swallow her initial fear and take in the astonishment of flying. People have been rescued and subsequently flown around by heroes before, but it’s the first time for Tami and she’s completely astonished. They appear to be flying toward the city and she suddenly thinks to ask, “where are you taking me anyway?”

Light Blaze doesn’t even seem to look at her, though Tami supposes it may be hard to tell because of her mask. Another thought occurs to her, “can you even talk? Is that why you always avoid interviews with me?” To Tami’s surprise, Light Blaze just laughs a short, amused chuckle. Tami stares in awe. “Ok so you’re not deaf, that was going to be my next legitimate question.”

Light Blaze banks around the corner of a building and Tami holds on tighter. She stares at the ground with wide eyes. There are cars driving up and down, people meandering along the sidewalk, shops and restaurants going about their business and Tami is flying. It’s an odd thought to her. If they looked up they might see her, but as long as they didn’t they were completely unaware that she was there. If she called out or tried to get someone’s attention they would look, but as long as she left it alone, they were alone up there in the air. Light Blaze is flying closer to the news building Tami realizes, and she realizes that is probably where she will be dropped off. Light Blaze clears the lip of the roof and touches down a couple meters away from the edge. As soon as she is standing on the ground, she stops glowing. They stand there for a second as Tami stares at Light Blaze quizzically. Light Blaze stares back, her face now in the shadow of night.

Suddenly Light Blaze clears her throat, “you let go now,” she says. Tami blinks in surprise. Light Blaze’s voice is deep, commanding, and slightly gruff. If Tami didn’t know better, she would think she was putting on a voice.

She shakes her head, “oh, yeah, right,” she says. Light Blaze lowers her legs to the ground and Tami lets go of her neck and steps back. She tugs her jacket closer to her body in an attempt to combat the cold. Light Blaze turns and looks like she is preparing to jump. Tami starts suddenly, this is her chance to ask her some questions, no way in hell is she passing it up. “Hang on a second, I’m not letting you off that easily!”

Light Blaze pauses and turns her head to glance back at Tami with an eyebrow arched. Tami goes on, expecting that she doesn’t have much time before the elusive woman tries to take off again, “How did you know to take me here?”

Light Blaze turns toward her fully. “What?” Her voice is more relaxed, not so gruff anymore, almost familiar, but Tami ignores it for the moment.

“This building, this is where I work. Did you know that? Do you know who I am?” Tami asks the heroine.

Light Blaze’s eyebrows raise, and her mouth falls open slightly. Her reaction tells Tami that she slipped up, and probably doesn’t know how to believably explain herself, so Tami doesn’t bother with giving her a chance to make up an excuse. “Who are you?” she asks. She knows she may not get a straight answer, but she may at least learn something.

The heroine doesn’t speak for a moment. She looks deep in thought, thinking of what to say, Tami supposes. Finally, she speaks up, “I’m Light Blaze. You gave me that name after all.” Light Blaze shifts her weight, standing up straight and putting her fists on her hips. Her white, somewhat armored suit glints in the moonlight. Her blue cape and blue hair flow in a well-timed gust of wind, but her gloved fists don’t fins her hips properly and she has to readjust. The pose is meant to be powerful but comes off as awkward. Obviously, this really is Light Blaze’s first time giving an interview. Possibly being around anyone at all.

Tami narrows her eyes, not impressed. “Uh-huh,” she says, “so you do know me then. You follow my work?” She tilts her head, inquiring.

“In a manner of speaking,” the heroine replies. She’s trying to keep her answers vague. Interviewees do that when they are trying to hide something. In this case, Tami admits, it’s her secret identity, so it’s understandable.

“Well you clearly know enough about me to know exactly where I work. I can’t even expect that of some of my friends,” Tami quips, hoping she can convince Light Blaze to relax slightly. Light Blaze smiles slightly at that comment, so Tami counts it as a success. “You’ve been around for five years, why have you never talked to, well, anyone?”

Light Blaze chuckles awkwardly, “well, in case you couldn’t tell,” she rubs a hand over her neck, “I’m not the most skilled conversationalist. And I try to keep my private life private.”

Tami crosses her arms and shrugs, “fair enough,” she says, “I don’t need to know too much about that then, but I do want to know about you as a superhero. Just so we’re on the same page, do you think you could give me a rundown of what your powers are?”

“Um,” Light Blaze, puts her hand to her face in thought, “you may want to write this down if I do.”

“I have an eidetic memory; I’ll remember anything you tell me.”

Light Blaze nods, and starts to count off on her fingers, “first off I glow and can fly, those ones are pretty obvious. I seem to have more strength than I used to, but maybe not on the level of some super strong heroes. The rest of my powers involve manipulating light,” Light Blaze explains as Tami makes note of a few follow up questions to ask.

“So stuff like your shield, your power blasts, stuff like that is you ‘manipulating light’?” Tami confirms.

Light Blaze nods, “that’s right.”

Tami rubs her chin, “you said ‘manipulate’, so can you work in complete darkness?”

“Complete darkness is very rare,” Light Blaze says, “and I can glow, so I can create my own light to work with.”

“How long can you keep creating light for?” Tami asks, “do you have a limit on how long or much you can use your powers?”

Light Blaze shakes her head, her blue wavy hair bouncing around. “I can keep creating light until I get physically exhausted. It requires energy. It’s like walking, I can do it for a long time, but it’ll tire me out eventually. The same pretty much applies to my other powers.”

“Your shield and blasts would seem to indicate that you can make light hard, is that right?”

“Yeah. The energy used in those can be felt physically because they are highly condensed light.”

“You said you’re stronger than before, so that means you got your powers, and you weren’t born with them.”

Light Blaze looks shocked for a moment. “Uh, yeah. Good catch.”

“Are you human?” Tami presses.

“I… was?” She says it almost like a question. “I was born human; I think the term they use for people like me is metahuman.”

Tami nods. “How?” Light Blaze gives her a blank look. “How did you get your powers?”

Light Blaze crosses her arms, “why? Do you want to write my origin story?”

“Sure. I think people would be interested, don’t you?”

She purses her lips, considering. “I didn’t really think people would care.”

Tami squints, “you’re not the first one to say that. I just disagree.”

Light Blaze stares at her. “I was in an accident. It’s a long story, and pretty typical. Weird science experiment gone wrong and it gave me powers. You know. The usual.”

Tami mulls over this for a moment, fidgeting with the end of her sleeve, “so that’s it? Weird experiment and you had powers?” Light Blaze nods. “Well, you’re right, that is a pretty typical origin story. What made you decide to become a superhero?”

Light Blaze looks off to the side for a moment. “It took me a while to even realize I had powers. The accident put me in a body cast for like a month,” Tami quirks an eyebrow at that, “When I did figure it out, I was pretty freaked out. I kept it a secret, tried to avoid using them, tried to figure out how to control them. I wasn’t planning on being a superhero at first, it just sort of happened. Saw something happen that I knew I could help with my powers, so I did. I didn’t have a costume yet, so I just kinda used my light to make myself really hard to look at and figure out who I was.” Tami thought back to her first appearance. She had been there and took a picture of the mysteriously light woman. The first time she had seen her, she shown so brightly, all you could see was the shape of a woman shining like the sun. Apparently, that was intentional. “I didn’t mean to get attention, but there were a bunch of people around, and I guess you took a picture of me, so that was it. I was in the public eye. And to my own surprise, I liked being a hero a lot more than I expected. It was fun. So, I made myself a costume so I wouldn’t have to blind everyone when I went out to help people.”

Tami nods. “So that’s why you’re here? Because you like to save people? It’s fun?”

“More or less,” Light Blaze shrugs.

“And why did you never stop for an interview? I know I’m not the only reporter who’s ever tried to get one.”

“Mostly? I was just shy, busy, or just didn’t feel like it. Or maybe I was scared that a reported would try to get me to reveal my secrets or try to reveal my identity to the world.”

Tami studied the woman’s face. She knows now that she is all too familiar with it. “So, what changed?” she says.

Light Blaze stares back, and after a few moments finally says, “I’m choosing to trust you.” Tami’s breath pauses at that.

After a few moments of silence between the two, another gust of wind picks up Light Blaze’s azure hair and cape and she finally breaks the quiet, “I should go. It was good talking to you, Tami.”

Tami studies the woman, “sure,” she considers for a moment and finally says, “I’ll see you soon?”

Light Blaze starts to glow and lifts off the roof inch by inch. Tami thinks she sees the heroine smile, but her eyes haven’t adjusted to her sudden light, so it’s difficult to tell. “Count on it,” the heroine says.

And she winks. The movement is difficult to make out through the mask, but Tami knows it happened. Light Blaze turns and flies off into the night.

Tami turns and makes her way to the door that will lead her into the building, her feet scuffing along the gravel on the roof, deep in thought.

About five and a half years ago, Jean spent almost every day for a month visiting Jean in the hospital after an accident in her lab put her in a body cast. Then, a few months later, she had plans to meet Jean outside of a movie theater in the city. She had just left a grand opening where she had been taking photographs, so as she lounged near the door waiting for her friend and watching the city pass by, she clicked through photos on her camera, deciding which ones she wanted to use in her article. It was a few minutes before their intended meet up time when there was suddenly a cacophony of screams. A small jet was falling from the sky, hurtling towards the crowds and cars. The jet was marked with the logo of a villain, seemingly knocked from the sky by some hero in a battle up above. There was panic as the jet crashed into a building, sending debris hurtling down toward passers-by below. Tami remembers looking on in terror from across the street when there was suddenly a great shield. It was concave up, catching the debris and jet in a bowl-like structure. People chattered, bewildered by what had happened, and Tami started taking pictures as quickly as she could. That’s when she appeared: A woman who at the time looked like she was made of pure light. She floated beside the shield; a hand outstretched toward it. Tami adjusted the exposure on her camera, determined to get a good shot of the mysterious new hero. The crowd began to applaud, and the woman of light looked around at the people below. She started to fly away, carrying the debris with her. Tami watched as she flew and deposited the debris in the bay and took off toward somewhere in the city.

At the time, Tami had been so astonished by the appearance of a new hero, she barely thought about a very key detail: Jean never showed.

Now, Tami supposes, I guess I know why.

She stops at the door and turns and walks to the roof’s edge instead. She looks over the edge at the people below. They go about their night, oblivious to her above. The building isn’t so tall that if she called down to them, they wouldn’t hear her, or if she threw something, they would look up. But as long as she stays quiet, they would stay oblivious.

“Yeah, well,” she muses aloud as she turns back toward the door, “maybe that’s for the best after all.”

She puts her hand on the door handle and pulls it open, silently grateful that it was unlocked. Before stepping inside, she casts another look over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Jean’s glowing form soaring over the city. She smirks to herself and lets the door close gently behind her.

#i was proud of it and i wanted it in the world #i dont care if no one reads it #writing #My writing #original story #original content #original character #super hero #super heroes #superhero #superheroes #short story #miraculous ladybug #dc comics #marvel comics

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