Gloves: Scotland and Reader:
The moment the accursed gloves went on, the lid on his anger blew off. They would punch through walls, knock out teeth, rattle brains, and grab bottle after bottle of scotch until he was completely spent and sprawled on the living room floor, groaning with a headache and a black eye or cuts all along his face or arms.
When he put the gloves on he was a different person, matching his dark auburn hair in fiery personality and a thick accent that spat out insults as the gloves mercilessly pounded into someone who had slipped a petty insult to the tipsy man with a fuse as short as a grace note. The only person he cared about was himself during those times, shutting off the rest of the world to instead spend time with a nice bottle of scotch and not-so innocent arm wrestling.
Then there were those rare times when the gloves were off, revealing tough and calloused hands with long fingers ready to wrap around someone’s neck, but they wouldn’t dare. He’d rather use his exposed hands to hold his wife than the shirt collar of some drunk.
His hands were always warm, even if he didn’t wear the gloves, leaving little trails of chills on your icy skin as he lay beside you for a moment before throwing off the covers and heading off to work, stuffing the gloves in his pockets for his after work bar visit.
You hated those gloves, you hated the bars, and you hated that you only had those little moments in the morning before he headed off. The rest of your time was spent patching his skin or dabbing a soaked cotton ball against his brow as his bare hands rested on your hips and he tried to whisper drunken admiration.
“I-I love you,” he slurred, his face as dark as his hair and his accent thick.
“Of course you do,” you mumbled and continued to dab the cut on his brow.
Like most nights his bare and beaten raw hands rested on your hips and drew you closer so he could cuddle against you and try again to profess his love, but this time it was different. His fingers gently squeezed your sides and you shivered at the feeling of his rough callouses pressing against you, but you had to shake it off.
“I love you,” he tried again, with a hint of urgency as his fingers pressed in.
You stopped your eyes from rolling and pushed his hands away. Most of the cotton balls were stained with red and you would have to go grab some more. While you were gone his brain started to turn, the clunky gears rusted with alcohol, sparked with anger, then remorse, and finally a drastic idea that might actually work, as he somehow connected the pieces, taking the gloves from his pocket and the match box from the other, as you came back in.
“What are you doing?” you asked, noting the gloves in his hand.
“I’m getting my wife back,” he grumbled and stood.
The only thing you could do was stand there and cry as he threw the gloves into the kitchen sink, struck a match, and let it drop, consuming the scotch, blood, bruises and lonely nights as it burned, and when it was all said and done Scott picked up the remains and threw them away.
The next morning he would wake up hung over, with a pounding headache and the taste of bile burning his mouth, but he would look over and see his wife. Her eyes barely open and with a sleepy smile, before she snuggled closer and buried her face in the crook of his neck, relishing the feeling of his hands on her sides.
Then he would realize he made the right decision, the decision only he could make and would lie back down and enjoy the feeling of his hands against her sides and her sleepy smile.