#quilt revival

[bevanne46]

Georgia Bonesteel Fostering a Love of Quilting!

American quilter, author and longtime teacher of quilting on television and workshops.

Her latest book is Scrap Happy Quilts from Georgia Bonesteel.

Check out Georgia’s books Shop some of Georgia’s latest designs and classic favorites. Explore Georgia’s beginnings, career lineage, and accomplishments.

"Teaching is my first love, since in this way I am able to do my small part to perpetuate the art of quiltmaking."

Featured In PBS CREATE TV The Great American Quilt Revival American Quilter’s Society

#crafts #gifts #decor #quilting #sewing #bedding #briar rose quilts #blankets #scrap happy quilts #georgia bonesteel #quilters of tumblr #quilt aking #amerian quilter #quilt revival

[sunlitmcgee]

Wanna do a doodle of c ranboo getting a good night's rest after many hugs and a nice long lava soak. My boy is so tired. He is so tired from revival

#him and Tommy gonna make turns making a quilt #Revival buddies quilt #For therapy. Yes

[morallyinept]

Yours And Mine, Mine And Yours - A Joel Miller One Shot

Summary: Joel's fixin' up your new home, darlin'. A little fic written for @iamasaddie 's writing challenge, based on the moodboard she created for me above.

Pairing: No Outbreak!Joel Miller x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 1.2k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️ “It's the emergence of.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Joel gets handsy with you. Some wandering fingers and hands.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Probably the quickest thing I've ever written. This was such a fun challenge! 🤗

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Joel wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his calloused hand, squinting against the relentless Texan sun beating down on the dried-out yard.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of sun-baked soil and the distant hum of cicadas. His t-shirt clings to his broad body, a makeshift sponge for the beads of perspiration rolling down his neck.

The dilapidated shack looms behind him, a wonky testament to the daunting task ahead of him. As Joel swings the sledgehammer, the metallic clang echoes through the neighbourhood, punctuating through the quietude.

Dust stirs in the stifling air, settling on his damp skin and lips, and mingling with the aroma of decay from the timeworn wood.

The house stands weathered and weary, bearing the scars of time like a rugged survivor put through its paces in the landscape. Its sun-bleached siding has long surrendered to the elements, leaving behind a patchwork quilt of peeling paint.

The porch sags, burdened by the weight of years of neglect. Windows with grubby glass stare blankly with mottled panes and dried out vines framing them. The front door, stubbornly resistant to opening, squeaks, setting his teeth on edge.

He makes a mental note to get some supplies to lubricate the hinges tomorrow at the hardware store in town.

Yet, amidst the decay, a glimmer of potential lingers in the foundations, which upon inspection, are solid - a promise of revival in the echoes of hammers and the scrape of paint brushes against the tired surfaces.

The clatter of tools, occasional grunts, and the distant rumble of a passing truck marks the soundtrack of his sweaty endeavours throughout the day.

It’s a project that Joel is determined to see through, to make this wreck of a house a home. Yours and his. His and yours.

And it was a steal too, one that you could both comfortably afford, despite the dire renovations needed to stop it blowing over in a strong gust.

But Joel would see to it, those working hands fixing up the place himself in between jobs to save on labour costs and cowboy conmen of the trade sniffing round.

When he’s finally done for the day, and yearning for a cool shower to soothe his burning skin, the creaking porch protests under his stacked weight; each scrape of his boots accompanied by the groaning of ancient nails he’ll have to replace, burnt a shade of umber in their rust.

Joel, aching from the day's labour, enters the house with a trail of dry yard dust in his wake flaking from his boots as he kicks them off. The creaky door clatters shut behind him, and he navigates the dimly lit hallway toward the sound of running water.

The bathroom door stands slightly ajar, revealing a slice of warm light spilling onto the scuffed tiled floor.

Inside, you’re standing sans jeans and barefoot at the sink, hands submerged in cool water, washing away your own grime of the day and paint from under your fingernails.

He wraps his thick arms around you, not with urgency, but with a tired understanding born from the shared toil.

Joel nestles his face into the crook of your neck, the fading scent of soap mingling with the earthiness of your day's work fills his nostrils as he inhales.

"Ya look exhausted, darlin’," he murmurs against your ear, his voice as gravelly as the driveway.

You are tired, you feel it weighing your bones, but a genuine smile plays on your lips as he nuzzles into you.

"You caught the sun.”

He glances his face in the mirror to see a faint burn streaking pink across his hawkish nose and forehead.

“Nice cool shower will fix that.”

“Mm, been fermenting all day, too. We also need to get the air conditioner to work.” You groan in delight at the thought of ruminating in an igloo.

“I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.” Joel says.

You feel his hands sliding down your back to settle on your hips. You’re standing there in just your panties and an oversized shirt that drapes over your thighs with the baggy sleeves bunched and rolled up.

On closer inspection it’s speckled with paint.

Joel steps away, one hand still attached at your hip, the other reaching into the shower to switch it on. Whilst the water runs he cuddles up behind you again, this time his hands undo the buttons on your shirt slowly as he looks at you through the mirror.

“Look at you all pretty in m’shirt.” He hums, slowly revealing the skin from the centre of your chest. “Gone n’ got paint all down it.”

“You don’t wear it anymore.” You turn off the faucet, and the sound of running water ceases.

“That’s because ya take it before I get a chance to.”

“What's yours is mine, Joel.” You smirk with a casual shrug.

“Mmhm.” He grizzles into your skin. “And what's yours is mine, too.”

His hands come up to your breasts, sliding inside the now open shirt and giving you a soft grope; fingers tweezing around your swollen nipples as he pulls on them gently making you hiss and shudder. They're so sensitive and he knows it as he rolls them, pinching a little.

You hear him grunt in your ear as you moan out, head lolling back on his shoulder.

You watch keenly in the mirror as his palm slides down your sternum and settles on the small swell of your belly, stroking over it gently. You feel the heat of his giant hand emanating through your skin.

“Ya better not be over-exertin’ yourself painting up this place. I can do it.”

“I’m pregnant Joel, not useless.” You smile. “I’m doing a pretty good job, I'll have you know. Kitchen's almost done.”

“Well, ya leave the high walls to me. Won’t have ya climbin’ up any ladders.”

“Yes, boss.” You grin.

He nips on your ear playfully and smirks as he ruts his hips into your behind making you feel that bulge that you’re unable to ignore.

“Ya look so fuckin’ sexy like this.” He drawls. Those rough calloused hands of his roam your skin, pulling the shirt down off your shoulder so he can kiss you on it.

Joel’s other hand slips down past your belly and cups over your cunt; warm and dampening panties are felt inside his palm.

He runs his finger up and down the seam of you, the material sinking into your wet folds as he does it. You flinch when he knocks against the engorged bump of your clit, and you bite down on your lip as you feel that heavy ache pulse through it.

He lifts up the back hem of the shirt and slips his hand inside your panties stroking and squeezing at your ass.

“What’s yours is mine, right?” He says, when he catches you grinning at him through the mirror.

Joel kisses your neck as he slowly pulls your panties down and you step out of them. Turning, you lift off his t-shirt revelling in his bronzed chest as he unbuckles his belt, watching as you plant kisses on his salt-brined collarbone.

You let the shirt slide off onto the floor as he takes off his jeans and socks and his cock, swollen and sticky, bobs out at you. You take him in your hand, stroking him slowly to full hardness as he whines into your eyelashes.

His fingers swipe into your folds, teasing your clit as he licks into your mouth. You can already feel your thighs shaking as he circles over the slickness of it as you start to pant.

"Let’s get ya in the shower, darlin’. Wanna fuck ya up against the tiles." Joel husks.

Groaning, you catch his lips in yours, your cheek gliding against his scruff before he picks you up in his arms and steps in with you under the cool spray.

Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed what you just read, please consider re-blogging, I'd really appreciate it. 🥰 Thank you so much @iamasaddie for creating this fun challenge! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #jett's writing #✏️ game

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Hello! Could you please write full headcanons on the M6 getting home one day to find MC dead? They're not actually dead, their body is just vacant after a spell went horribly wrong, but M6 have no way of knowing that.

Thank you!

The Arcana HCs: When M6 think MC is dead

~ @arson-the-ace oh, this. this is going to hurt, isn't it. ~

CW for descriptions of panic attacks, bodies that seem dead, references to past trauma, and your beloved in lots of pain

-- to set the scene --

It was supposed to be an experiment, to see if it was possible to put your body in a preserved or frozen state when you left it behind to visit the magical realms. You did not expect the result to be your body looking and acting like a fresh corpse, or for the spell to have a three hour cooldown time before you could reinhabit it. Your incorporeal self sighs and sits next to your body, resigned to the boredom of waiting it out.

Until, minutes later, the door opens and your beloved walks in, and you have no way of telling them what happened.

Julian

Already fears the worst as soon as he sees you sprawled on the floor - his plague doctor experience with visiting the sick has his instincts fine-tuned for recognizing an unrecoverable patient

Trips over himself in his scramble to get to you and gets a nasty bump on his knee, but doesn't register a thing because he's finally reached for you and he's looking for a sign of life

A pulse. An exhale. The twitch of your eyes moving below your eyelids, anything, anything to tell him that you can be saved

He rolls you onto your back and tries to give you CPR, but he's breaking down too much already for any of it to be effective

Chest compressions turn into him ripping his gloves off, trying to find any of the warmth you've shared with him

Mouth-to-mouth turns into a choked sob against your cold cheek

He can't bring himself to keep going. Each failed attempt at reviving you gets his hopes up only to rip them to shreds again

He doesn't want to move forward. He doesn't want to go ahead with laying you to rest. He doesn't want to leave this drafty wooden floor, without a blanket or a pillow to keep you comfortable

And he can't stand up

He sits cross-legged on the floor, lifting your head onto his lap and laying his coat over you in lieu of a quilt

You watch him droop over your body, shivering in the drafty room without his layers, voice catching and breaking on quiet sobs as he sings you the lullaby his parents sang him before the shipwreck

By the time your eyes flutter open, his voice is gone

He's happy to see you - he's so, so happy to see you, but he keeps hovering over you like he never knows if you're about to collapse for good next time

If you love him, you'll wait a long, long time to do any more magic

Asra

They thought you were playing some kind of game, at first

He walked into the upstairs apartment to see you sprawled on the floor and teasingly called out your name, playfully asking what new mischief you were up to as he hung up his coat

And then you didn't answer them

As soon as he felt that old dread seize his stomach, he was hurrying across the room and asking you what was wrong

They can feel their own body growing cold as they touch your frozen one, pressing a trembling hand to your chest in search of the heartbeat they moved heaven and hell to give you

He's panicking, breaths coming quick and short. The motions of his arms trying to pull you closer to him are far too similar to his frantic digging in the ash filled sands of the Lazaret

They don't know what's worse - the images flashing across their eyes of your charred bone fragments splintering in their bleeding fingers, or your lifeless face lying heavy against their knees

His heart can't take it. The tears give way to an ongoing numb tremor. He places a preservation spell on your body as his last conscious thought before he lies down next to you on the floor

They put their arm under your limp neck and cuddle up to you like it's just another day's end, just another snuggle before sleep while they lay their head down on your icy, silent chest

You watch him hold your body in shock. He seems like he's caught between worlds, alternating between staring at your unmoving stomach while his shaky tears land and pool on your shirt

And reflexively whispering apologies as they mop up their tears with their sleeve, asking if they're squeezing you too tightly

He's quick to check your memories when you wake up, but no matter how healthy you are, he can't leave your side for a week

Nadia

Her intuition is telling her something is wrong as soon as she's approaching her chambers. Seeing you on the ground is her worst nightmare coming true

You're cold to the touch. You don't respond to her voice. You don't respond ... at all. She needs help, you need help, you need help now, she's going to get you everything you need, just hang on

She lifts you into her bed, and the chilly deadweight of your body is more than she can take. When she throws open the door and yells for a doctor, every servant in earshot hears her panicked sobs

She hasn't had a panic attack like this in years

Servants rush in and out in a blur, hurried murmurs and muffled exclamations fading into the background. She feels like she's been plunged underwater, unable to scream as her lungs fill with salt

She sits by your side with your hand in both of hers, clinging to the only part of you she's allowed to touch while the closest physician pokes and prods at your lifeless body. She can't see you anymore

And everyone else? They can't see their Countess at all

They see a broken-hearted woman holding steadfast to her lover's limp hand, breaths jagged and unpredictable as she wails through her teeth. Mercifully, her hair comes undone and hides her wrenched face and streaming tears behind a curtain of purple

You woke her, first from her dreams, then from her apathy, and finally from her loneliness. Watching you succumb to a sleep far stronger than the one that trapped her is wretched beyond words

When you finally stir awake, she refuses to leave your side as the doctors work to ensure that your vitals are stable and to try to figure out what happened and if there are any repercussions

She's glad you're back, but she can't stop herself from waking you in the middle of the night to make sure you're just sleeping

Muriel

He's already convinced of the worst before he can prove it

He knows what a body collapsed in sudden death looks like. He's seen them countless times on the sand of the Coliseum floor, slaughtered at his own shackled hands, but now it's you

Now it's the only person he trusted to never leave his side

He can't register Inanna beginning to whine and pace, he can't register the sounds of the forest outside, he can't register the fire slowly burning down and out in the back of the hut

A lifetime of trained alertness, muted, because his subconscious has decided it can't take paying attention to a world that doesn't have you in it any more

He's finally able to move again when he takes his first shuddering breath in minutes, and he begins to walk and reach towards you in the vague hope that all is not as it seems

But that's when some small, sick part of his brain starts up its tiny chant that he deserves this, that this is the effect of giving in to your misguided desire for his touch, that this is somehow his doing

But the larger part of him, the part of him that loves you and aches for you and is dedicated to you, leans past the furious pain and lifts your head and shoulders off of the floor, enough so he can lower his head and listen for a heartbeat, feel for breath on his cheek

And there isn't any. Your body is as still and lifeless as his hope for something better, and he can't breathe. He can't breathe, and he's curled up in a ball with you in his arms, and he can't breathe

It takes a few hours before he can master his thoughts enough to think. This has happened before, and it was possible for you to come back. Asra, he has to bring you to Asra, he'll give anything

You wake up as he's carrying you through the woods, and it's the first time you've seen his body go so completely weak with relief

Portia

At first, she thinks you're feeling a little silly and sleeping on the floor just to mess with Pepi. Though the way you're lying, you almost look like you've collapsed. That can't be comfortable

It's when she crouches down to wake you up that she can tell something's wrong. Your shoulder is cold - way too cold

She's already got tears running down her face, but never in her life has she let her sadness stop her from caring for those she loves. She shakes you, back and forth, calling your name over and over

At some point she realizes that it's too late, there's nothing she can do, and that's when she starts wracking her brain for someone who can do something. Anything. She's not giving up on you

She's small, but she's strong and she's in pain. She lifts your body and begins to stumble through the Palace garden with you. She leans into the volume of her wails, using them to call for help

First through the gardens, then through the Palace halls, unable to recognize the blurry faces through her tears, but determinedly blubbering out what's happened and how she needs help for you

When someone who might have been the Countess informs her that the physician is out, she walks out the front gates of the Palace. Her ears are deaf to the offer of a carriage into town

Vesuvia still remembers its plague. It has never before heard cries as anguished as the ones Portia sent echoing down the canals as she ran and stumbled with your body to Mazelinka's house

Mazlinka will be there. Ilya will be there. They both know plenty about medicine, they should be able to help, just hang on. Hang on, she tells your cold body, hang on for me

You stir awake just as she crosses the threshold into the basement dwelling, and the emotions she feels are so overwhelming that she almost punches you for scaring her. She can't stop crying

Lucio

When he walks into the room in the inn after his trip to the outhouse, he avoids the sinking feeling in his gut by telling himself you're just napping. On the floor. Without moving

And then he can't take the way his conscience is nagging at him, so he snaps and (not unkindly, but brashly) tells you to get up and get moving already, we're wasting daylight!

But you don't move. You don't give him a disapproving look. You don't grumble when he shakes your shoulder, or open your eyes when he pats your cheek, or smile when you hear your name

He doesn't understand. You're brave, you're strong, you're loving, you're good, you're full of goodness and you're better than anything he ever deserved after what you suffered because of him

Because of ... him

This must be his fault. This must be his actions catching up with him. This must be the fallout of all those rash deals, some forgotten deity must have run out of patience and come to collect

Of course this would happen. It would take a hundred lifetimes to sift through the pile of selfish bargains, of course he missed one, of course he failed to make up for his past deeds, of course ...

Of course an oversight like that would cost him you

But he's not going to let this go. You deserve better. He hauls you into his arms, ignoring the way he chokes at your dangling limbs, and rushes out of the inn and into the deep, deep woods beyond

He screams and cries and yells and threatens and pleads and begs until his voice falls silent and he can taste blood in his throat

He calls out to any angry being listening to tell him, tell him what this is in payment for, tell him what he can put on the bargaining table that would pay back the debt that demanded your soul

You wake up before he can do anything rash, but he squeezes you in his sleep now, as if to challenge any more soul thieves

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[blueparadis]

╰┈➤ ANIMAL ✦ KAEYA ALBERICH.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢ In the search for hauls Kaeya stumbled upon something greater, something divine that could revive him and his Khaenri'ah.

+

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ fem!reader x pirate!kaeya,non - canon divergent lore, hints of supernatural powers, subtle mention of stockholm syndrome, dub-con, ( non-consensual to consensual ) somnophilia. read the part one here ( just the back story. they are not connected but you can consider this as a sequel. both can be enjoyed as a single oneshot. ); 1,2k word count. | blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. |

There has been a vague series of events that have been frequenting your mind lately. It starts with a well-built person standing at the entrance of the room, perhaps a man; His face is blurred as he walks into your room, watching you, standing near you, touching you, your face and hair— you could even hear the floorboard creaking, feel the cold of the wind from the sea chilling your skin with goosebumps and the flame in the lamp dying as the man leans towards your face. That is when your slumber disrupts and you sit up but seeing everything around you as it was in your dream does not help.

But seeing Kaeya sitting outside the room with his goblet full of wine soothes your erratic heart rate a bit. Every time you wake up from this particular bad dream, he is some where near you— either outside on the deck or inside the room busy at his study desk. Many a night he has helped you go back to sleep by telling you various stories about his homeland, about the people he knew there.

Does he never sleep? You had thought every time you had found him awake in the dead of night. Kaeya had incorporated another bed in his cabin because the one he used to sleep in is now yours. It has been like that since the day he rescued you. You do not know why he kept you so long and under such protection even though he could have killed you after using you as a tool of pleasure. 

Generally, you would get up from the bed, have a glass of water and walk up to the deck asking him to come inside, to keep you company till you fall asleep again. But tonight it is different. The door is locked and Kaeya is in his bed, at an arm's length from yours, possibly awake. You can only see his long strands of copper-blue hair, his nape, and a part of his shoulder. Everything else is buried under the quilt.

You smile to yourself thinking about the first time you opened your eyes in his cabin, lying in his bed like this and saying “Map maker, I’m a map maker” when he asked about you; that is the only thing you could remember. 

And with a bright and warm smile, he had admitted, “Great. we could use a map maker.” A unified cheer from his crew followed him and you knew from the bottom of your heart that you are safe, you are okay here.

As you get out of bed, you notice a part of your dress as well as the bed wet. It had red stains so you assumed that your month's cycle had commenced. But the next morning you came to the conclusion that it was nothing but red wine, you knew it was a little early for your red cycle. Letting out a laugh you slipped out of your dress thinking how Kaeya can be clumsy sometimes but the thread of suspicion snapped when you noticed some bruises in your inner thigh, and around your taut nipples as your dress dropped on the floor.

Your legs gave up, your body froze and your skin burnt with goosebumps. You crouched down in cold agony. A stifling sob escaped your mouth thinking of who could have done this to you. Thinking who dared to touch you against your will despite sharing rooms with the master of this ship. So that night, you planned to pretend to be asleep, waiting for the person to show up in the cold dark night. 

But fate had other plans, soon the exhaustion and dizziness due to the salty breeze took over your urge to be awake and your eyes lulled to sleep. When you were awake again, you felt something in between your legs, something wet. You felt a sting around your pussy before it was soothed with a sweet lap of the tongue. Irregular breaths and pants hit your clit as you managed to pull up your head to see the face of the culprit. 

A knife in your hand and the clustered bed sheet in the other as you opened your eyes but alas! None of that mattered anymore. His face was not blurred anymore, you could see him as clear as a day. Springing upright on the bed you looked at him with dilated pupils. It was Kaeya.

“tsk, thought you were awake tonight.” Kaeya crawled towards you, his lips and nose stained with your arousal as he stopped inches away from your face. You could smell yourself on him. 

His mouth opens ajar as his lips latch around your clothed pebbled nipples. He suckled on them while his fingers had slowly slid up your thighs. You did not feel the emotions that you thought you would feel — rage, disgust, hatred, dirty and unholy. Rather a sense of relief had washed over you knowing it was none other than Kaeya, your rescuer. 

Under the guidance of his arms, you lay down again. He grazes his nose against the column of your throat inhaling your scent, feeling your light speed heartbeats. It makes him high in adrenaline and hard for some reason. He can not let you spiral now. So, with his honey-dewed voice, he whispered, “Don’t you think you owe it to me? For saving your life? Hmmm?” before diving back in between your legs, 

“Don’t you think you owe it to me, for saving your life? ” It rings in your ear, till now when the sun has come out, and Kaeya stands in his deck busy with his morning chores. Everything else has been sedimented at the back of your mind except that question. You were up earlier than Kaeya for the first ever. The sea is awfully calm tonight while your heart is full of chaos. It took a few raw shots of vodka to gather the courage to do what you are about to do. And that was not even the worst part. 

You liked it, every bit of it, that was the worse part. To think that Kaeya wanted you in more ways than just a map maker illuminated your body with desire and hunger. So, when you are all on your fours on his bed, barely clad, and Kaeya’s quilt is on the floor you do not know if it is the seed of vengeance, gratitude, or desire that sprouted into something else, that made you kneel in front of him.

As you fidget with the strings of his trousers Kaeya wakes up due to the cold and is shocked at first seeing you in front of him like this, desperate and drunk. 

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.

“Why?” you drawled. “I’m here to return the favor,” you muttered kissing his navel and then looking up to him.

#kaeya smut #kaeya x reader #kaeya x you #kaeya x y/n #kaeya x fem!reader #kaeya alberich x reader #kaeya alberich x you #kaeya alberich smut #genshin smut #gi smut #genshin impact smut #gi x reader #gi x you #genshin oneshots #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin x f!reader #genshin x female reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x female reader #genshin impact fanfics #cw somnophilia #cw dark content #cnc somno #somno cnc #somno cw #somnophilia cw #genshin impact oneshots

[vivwritescrappythings]

And They Were Roommates

modern!Hobie Brown x Reader

My first ever fanfiction posted online.

TW: afab!reader, she/her pronouns, drinking, bad writing?, very OOC Hobie, didn’t write the accent or slang please don’t come for me.

Word Count: 12.9k

masterlist

——

The apartment is cold when you wake up, the crappy heater barely able to keep up with the frigid air outside. Getting out of bed takes some coaxing on your part, the quilt warm around your limbs. But you are determined to have a good day.

You emerge from your bed with tangled hair, clad in panties and a shirt you had stolen from your roommate. It was soft and a little faded from its times through the spin cycle, and it was all the better for it.

It’s already 11 in the morning by the time you start making coffee. The smell of the grounds revive you as you measure the portion out, carefully leveling and scooping like it was second nature. You can hear the floorboards creaking, the building settling.

“Cold?” Hobie asks from behind you, though you’re not sure when he snuck up on you during the process of waking up. He moves his arm around your shoulders and gently pulls you to lean on his chest. As far as roommates went, you existed in an odd limbo between roommates, friends, and lovers.

“A bit,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep. You tuck your nose against his arm. His skin is so warm it almost feels like it burns you as you set the coffee to brew.

“You’re lucky I’m so warm,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head. It sounds like he wants to say something else. That’s the thing with Hobie, he’s always been great at keeping his secrets.

You can feel him smile against your hair, the curve of his lips something between sweet and mischievous. “Or maybe I’m lucky to have you here,” Hobie says, his accent deep and lilting over each word.

You roll your eyes at his affections, your mind snapping back to being kept up late into the night by his recent escapade. “Did that girl you brought home last night already leave?” you ask bluntly, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The fact that he brought a girl home yesterday makes you have a bitter taste on your tongue. But, honestly, you have no right to be upset with him over it.

“Yeah,” Hobie says after a moment’s hesitation, shrugging. The nonchalance he is trying to brush it off with seems practiced. “She was nice…” he trails off, seemingly leaving things out. “Why?”

“Just asking,” you say, still watching the drip drip drip of the coffee maker, “or you wouldn’t be out here sucking up all my warmth.” A last ditch effort to try and lighten the mood to save the morning.

He scoffs and tries to sound indignant, “Like I’d want to suck up your warmth.” But he’s smiling and still keeping your shoulders trapped against his chest.

“Mhm, whatever you say,” you murmur, idly tidying the kitchen counter in front of you as you wait for enough coffee to brew. Hobie shifts, pressing his own cold nose to the back of your neck.

The warmth of your body against his and the feeling of Hobie’s lips and nose on the back of your neck sends a chill up your spine. Even if neither of you admit it, you both know that you mean more to one another than just roommates or even friends. It’s in the way he holds you, always with a sense of gentle ownership and care. When Hobie is around, he wants to keep you safe and warm, and you love to let him.

You almost melt into Hobie’s touch, but the memory of running into that girl from whatever concert he went to comes back. She was in the bathroom you shared, using your makeup wipes and expensive lotion. You manage not to stiffen in his embrace, but you start to shift to execute your morning activities as though Hobie isn’t hanging off of you like a human sized backpack.

As you look for your coffee mug in the pile of clean dishes, Hobie’s free hand moves to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear and stroke your back. It’s a gesture of comfort and affection, so natural that sometimes you wonder if Hobie even considers what he’s doing. You feel the tension in your muscles ease and relax despite your best efforts. You can’t stay angry with him, he’s allowed to flirt, allowed to sleep with whoever he wants. You aren’t in a relationship. You should want him to find someone, to be happy, but the idea of it makes your heart ache.

You huff out a breath through your nose, frustrated by your own train of thought. You look at the clock on the stove, it’s already approaching noon. Some days being Hobie’s roommate was harder than others, and today is already shaping up to be one of those days that hurts.

Hobie kisses the back of your neck softly and leans even closer to you, adjusting so his chin is on your shoulder and his cheek is against your hair. The feeling of his skin against the curve of your shoulder is like a warm and soothing balm—but it also makes your stomach twist with disappointment.

Guilt washes over you even though it has no reason to. You want to turn around and look at him, you want to feel his even gaze burn into you. You want to tell him everything you desire—everything you need. But your voice is stuck in your throat.

Not to mention, he doesn’t even know you want it. The wall between your rooms is thin, you’ve heard countless “I don’t want anything serious”, “just was messing around”, “no labels” conversations that Hobie has had with the women and men he brings to his bed. Sometimes you want to go talk to them on their way out to commiserate in the heartbreak.

Your heart lurches as Hobie’s words run through your head. All the time you’ve lived together, how many times has he said that speech to someone? You want to deny it, to tell yourself that what he tells them is different than how he feels about you and what you’ve done together. But you heard it with your own ears.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push away the feeling that he means it. He means it every time.

“What are your plans for today?” you ask, realizing that you and Hobie have just been in silence for the past five minutes.

Hobie looks up at you, you can see a slight weariness in his eyes at your question. It’s moments like this that you think this is it. Time to ask or just drop it and move on. His eyes fix on yours and you can tell he’s searching for something to say.

“Nothing really,” he says, shrugging. “I was probably just gonna stay in. Read.”

You extract yourself from Hobie’s arms, moving to the dishes you had left in the kitchen sink last night. You start to run the water, waiting for it to warm as it flows over your fingers. “Are you finally gonna read the book I loaned to you a few months ago?” you ask, he moves to stand beside you.

Hobie’s eyes harden with slight annoyance, but he takes a moment to respond. “Not yet,” he murmurs. His voice is cautious and even lower than usual. He doesn’t like conflict, nor does he like the feeling of being cornered—especially not by you.

“What are you up to later?” he asks, giving up on that path of conversation. It was a safe move, a way to distance himself and avoid any possibility of a serious discussion. He’s good at this sort of thing. Hobie has always been difficult to catch.

“Do you remember what day it is?” you ask, any hope that Hobie actually knows what day it is dissipating quickly. Your hands are soapy as you vigorously clean the bowl in the sink. You have cleaned it twice already, but you need something to do with your hands.

Hobie sighs at your question, making you deflate even further. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot,” he snaps. It takes him everything to keep his tone somewhat even and measured. There seems to be something in his words, some hint of frustration that you suspect has to do with you.

“But—look, I’m sorry, but I told you I wasn’t looking for…”

“It’s my birthday, Hobie,” you snap, “not some stupid fucking anniversary of us moving in together or something.” The anger comes out of you like a whip. You had to interrupt him, he knows that you would never bring that up, not again.

Your words cut through him like a red-hot knife. “I—“ he starts to say, his voice gentle once more. Hobie reaches out to you before catching himself. You can see the apology on his tongue and the regret in his eyes. It’s in there, barely peeking over the surface. There’s something he wants to tell you, you know there is, but he’s afraid he can’t make the choice.

“Yeah… figured you forgot,” you say, your voice small. “Well, my friends from school are throwing me a party tonight, at Club Wolf. You’re invited if you want to come, but I know it’s not your thing.”

“You know I’m not great with crowds,” Hobie says, his tone light and joking. You hear the desperation in it. He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to disappoint you. You bite your tongue, wanting to remind him that he is fine with crowds, just not nightclubs with dance music.

“But,” he says a second later, “I wouldn’t miss your birthday party for the world.” The lightness in his voice disappears as he offers a lopsided smile to you. Maybe a genuine smile. Maybe.

You glance at him over your shoulder, surprise coloring your face. You rinse the bowl you had made your own birthday cake in last night and set it on the rack to dry. “Well, just see how you’re feeling later. It starts at 9.” Hobie has made promises to show up before, you’re not going to hold your breath this time.

You turn to pull the cake out of the fridge and find the tubs of frosting you bought in the pantry. You set the cake on the kitchen table, pausing to wonder if baking and decorating your own birthday cake is sad. What does it matter anyways?

“I mean it,” he whispers softly. “I’ll be there, I promise.” He sounds sincere—or maybe that’s just what you want to hear. You feel yourself wanting to believe him. You know you shouldn’t, but deep down you hope you can.

His head dips to the side, his eyes scanning you warmly up and down in a familiar way. His gravity defying wicks move with him as he tilts. You always forget how beautiful Hobie is when he looks at you like that. You can’t blame him for anything right now.

“Okay.” You look at him briefly before turning back to the cake. Hobie is too beautiful to look at directly in the morning light, it felt almost like staring into the sun.

You dump globs of white frosting onto the cold sponge, spreading it smooth with a spatula. Hobie’s eyes study your measured movements. It takes you ten minutes to lopsidedly frost the cake, but you manage.

You move to the cabinet to search for the sprinkles you’d bought ages ago. Hobie moves behind you and watches your search, his gaze taking in both your back and profile in the reflection of the glass cabinet door. His focus remains on you for a moment before he breathes softly.

“I don’t want to go,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough for you to hear. He’s nervous. He’d be lying if he says he isn’t. The party means a lot to you and he doesn’t want to have to mess up the evening; or worse, ruin it completely,

“You don’t have to,” you say, your heart twisting in its disappointment. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“But… I want to for you,” Hobie says even quieter, you almost don’t understand him. He presses up against you again, arms wrapping around your middle. His body is warm and his breath is hot against your skin, making you shiver for a moment.

You feel a hesitation from him, like Hobie wants you to turn and face him and ask him for more. It’s like he’s waiting for you to say it, to validate and confirm things that he knows in his heart —and you do too.

But you can’t do it, you have put yourself out on that ledge before only to get struck down. It took you a long time to get back to this level of comfort with Hobie, dancing between friendship and something more. Unfortunately, you prefer being stuck in limbo than not having Hobie in your life at all.

You have to stretch on your tiptoes to reach the sprinkles on the top shelf. Hobie must have moved them while hunting for the stale candy bars that lived in the back of the cabinet.

Hobie chuckles and puts his hands on your waist, pushing gently until you put your heels back on the floor. You look back at him, seeing him smile the kind of smile that is sweet and soft and more genuine than anything you have seen in a long time.

“Here.” He hands the sprinkles to you. You have to stop yourself from melting into his arms.

You look away from his smile, your heart aching at the sight of it. “Thank you,” you murmur, clutching the plastic container tightly in your fist. The sprinkles are shiny spheres in your favorite colors: purple and pink. You have always been a sharp contrast to Hobie’s riot of blues and reds paired always with black.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, his voice sweet and gentle. You can feel his gaze lingering on the sprinkles in your hand for a moment longer before he looks up at you again.

“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, not bothering to hide his trepidation anymore. You can see his worry, the way his eyes keep straying to your neck, your hands, your face. Hobie seems afraid he’ll scare you away. You know he means more than just the party.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.” You offer him a half smile as you turn away from the press of his hand on your hip and to the frosted cake, perfectly white and crisp. You dump the sprinkles unceremoniously on top, tarnishing the pristine finish as you press them in to stick on the sides and top. The sprinkles spill over the edges of the plate, getting stuck in the nooks of the table settings.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he whispers, his eyes soft and searching when he approaches your side. That look is always enough to send your heart racing. You’re afraid you’ll do something wrong, something stupid that will push him away.

He places a hand on the table and leans in close, careful not to disturb the cake. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” Hobie’s small, gentle smile breaks through again and, for a moment, the world stands still.

You’re scared to move, to send this house of cards crashing to the ground. That’s how Hobie and you always feel—like a balancing act. At times he is cloyingly sweet and stuck deep between your molars, but he can turn in a flash to something bitter and sour.

“I can’t eat this whole cake by myself,” you finally say after a moment’s hesitation. Hopefully it is a wise choice.

Hobie smiles even wider at your response. “No,” he says, “no you can’t.” He reaches out for the sprinkles, his hand almost touching yours before stopping. The electricity that builds between the two of you feels tangible for a split second. The touches that Hobie finds intimate are so minor compared to those that he doesn’t. Holding hands and kissing on the mouth are too much, but almost everything else is casual.

His eyes search you again, and you remember all the times you have had this exact moment with Hobie before. You wonder if you’ll get used to it and lose the feeling of intimacy altogether, or if it will always be this way.

“I’ll help you eat it,” he says, finally.

“Perfect, cake for breakfast is a birthday requirement, after all,” you say, turning your gaze away from the intensity. You place the mostly empty container of sprinkles on the table, letting out the breath that has been stuck in your chest.

You look on the counter for the Polaroid camera you like to keep around. You had won it in a raffle in college and used it ever since. “I need to grab my camera, I promised my mom I’d take a picture of it before I cut it,” you say as you pad out of the kitchen with your bare feet. It’s in your room on your desk, you grab it by the strap and return just as quietly as you left. You stand over the cake, careful to get only it in the shot, the cracked porcelain plate and sprinkles strewn across the table completing the imperfect memory.

“You still have that silly camera?” Hobie asks from behind you. His voice is light and his tone is teasing, but you can hear a hint of genuine interest lurking in there as well. You can feel his eyes scanning your body—just for a moment, but you can. That slight shift in his gaze and the way he lingers on your legs almost makes the camera shake in your hands.

“Yeah,” you say, waving the photo a bit so the ink sets. You quietly contemplate how you can take a picture of yourself with the cake without asking Hobie to do it, for some reason that feels too silly. Last year Hobie didn’t even wake up until 4pm, so you had all the time in the world to take self-timer photos over and over again without embarrassment.

“I like the way the pictures turn out,” you explain, flipping the photo on the table over to see the image of the pink and purple cake developing. “They feel like memories from when you were a kid or something.”

“You’re right,” Hobie whispers. You can sense the sincerity in his tone and even see it in his expression. It’s one of those rare moments where all of his walls drop and his emotions break through just beyond that rough exterior he hides himself in.

You look at the photo again, the sprinkles are haphazard and the plate is cracked but it looks cozy rather than imperfect. You can see Hobie’s shadow in it, streaking across the table and intersecting with yours. You pick up the pen that you had left on the table earlier and scribble the date on it along with the number ‘21!’ and a big smiley face.

Hobie’s shadow looms over you as you write. He’s closer than you expected him to be, and there’s something different about him. His warmth has been replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. There’s a softness in his dark eyes—and a look of almost longing.

You cross your small, cluttered kitchen to set the Polaroid on the countertop. “You don’t need to be in this, but my mom likes to have pictures of me with the cake. She has a whole box of photos of me on my birthday morning.” You peek through the viewfinder to see that the cake is centered, a chair on either side.

You readjust the shirt you are wearing to cover a little bit more of your bare thighs as you set the timer, walking to the nearest chair with sure steps. Your kitchen table is a little crooked and small, the chairs mismatched. “You’ve got ten seconds to figure out what you want to do,” you murmur to Hobie as you try to fix your somewhat tangled hair and plaster a bright smile on your face.

He watches you on the other side of the table, drinking in your form as you prep for the photo. What he wants to do is easy: hold you. Hold you close and make sure you never leave him again. He’d be a fool not to try—and maybe that’s enough to shake him out of the looming fear that holds him back.

But what if you rejected him? His heart sinks just thinking about it. He’s not sure he could handle it, not in a moment like this.

He watches as the counter hits five seconds, not sure what to do.

“You don’t have to linger in the corner like a ghost you know,” you say through your teeth, still holding your smile as you stare into the lens of the camera. Your fingers twist in the soft fabric of the t-shirt in anticipation. You can’t help but wonder what he’s going to do.

Hobie’s eyes scan you again, taking in every detail. The way your hair falls against your collarbone, the way the shirt that belongs to him has started to slip from your shoulder. He leans against the table, resting one hand against the back of your chair.

You can feel his gaze on your neck, on your chin. His presence is warm against your skin as you hear him inhale and exhale. You want him to do something. You need him to.

One second left.

“Hobie?” You ask, your voice pinched as the one second warning beep goes off. He still rests half in and half out of the frame.

That soft word is enough. You feel the electricity between the two of you, that strange and beautiful tension that builds between two people when they are on the verge of something. Hobie’s fingers curl over the back of your chair, bringing himself closer. His eyes never leave your form—just the thought of you is enough to make him tremble.

He leans into you as he sits in the other chair, his breath hot on your cheek. Hobie places his hand on the opposite side of the cake, his shoulder close to yours. “Smile for me,” he mumbles, his voice barely loud enough for you to hear.

Your heart thumps and you can feel your false picture smile twist into something… different. The flash is blinding, the sound of the shutter solidifying the moment in your memories as the camera prints the photo. The apartment is quiet except for your breathing and the sound of the Polaroid printing the photo.

“Thank you, my mom loves getting pictures of me,” you say, your voice a little higher pitched than usual.

Hobie doesn’t say anything as he gets up to pull the photo free from the camera. His gaze scans you again, taking in everything in a moment. His eyes linger on the neckline of your shirt that’s slipped. He returns to where you sit at the table, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. His fingers brush against the top of your arm lightly as he smiles down at the photo. You look beautiful even with your tangled hair and the sprinkle-covered table settings.

“Did it turn out alright?” you ask him, not able to look at it yourself. You can’t acknowledge the permanent memento of whatever malformed relationship you have with Hobie. You stand, slipping out from under his hand as you grab two plates, forks, and a knife.

“Yeah,” Hobie says wistfully, and you can tell that he means it. It’s not the best photograph, but who cares—it’s a memory that he’ll hold onto and cherish for the rest of his life. He’d be a fool not to.

He can’t help himself and he wraps you in a hug, one arm around your waist and the other planted on the counter next to you. He places the photo down in front of you as he pulls you into his embrace.You fit together perfectly. He presses his cheek against your hair and inhales deeply, loving the way you smell.

You inspect the photo, leaning down slightly to see it better. You had worn his only colorful shirts to bed last night, the mustard yellow shape taking up half of the picture, the pink and purple cake between you, and Hobie swathed in dark blue and black. He was looking at you instead of the camera, and even in the photograph you could see the tenderness in his gaze. You were looking straight at the camera, what had originally been your photographic smile twisting into something genuine.

“Can I keep this?” he asks softly, his voice still raspy from sleep and his emotions. He still has a firm grip on you, his arm wrapped around you securely. He wants this moment to last and he’s not quite sure how to make it happen.

He looks down at you, his umber eyes studying every inch of your face. You can feel warmth radiating from him, and the way his body tenses—almost like he’s too nervous to breathe fully.

“Sure,” you say breathily, a little caught off guard. “I just need to grab a picture of it to send to my mom first.” Your heart is thundering in your chest, you’re trying not to think of a million scenarios about the deeper meaning behind him wanting to keep the photograph. You grab for your phone on the edge of the counter, taking a quick photo of the Polaroid before handing it to Hobie.

You can’t help but lean into him as he leans in close to you. He’s so gentle when he holds you, your head fits perfectly against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat is loud in your ears, steady and calming as he rocks you slightly back and forth in a hug. He smiles down at you, his eyes warm but his expression cautious. He’s not sure what to do next and it shows. He looks at the photo in his hands and back at you again.

“You hungry?” you ask, pushing the moment forward. You see his gaze drift down to the picture in his hand. “I can cut you a slice.” You look at him over your shoulder.

Hobie smiles again, but it’s a bit brighter this time. “I’m starving,” he says, his tone light and borderline teasing. He reaches around you, pressing his arms close to your body. You can feel his fingers against the shirt that you still wear, pressing up against your skin. It’s almost too much.

“Well you’ll have to free me if you want me to cut the cake,” you say with a soft laugh. You feel almost lightheaded from the attention. His hands are large, his fingers splayed against the yellow t-shirt and bunching it up slightly.

He laughs before pulling you closer, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in deeply. His fingers slip under the shirt and he presses himself against you again. You’ve never felt so close to someone—and you’ve never felt this vulnerable.

He’d be a fool to ruin the moment, and you’ve never seen a moment more perfect than this. No one ever told you love might feel like this: warm and dizzying, exciting and scary, and almost too good to be true, but here you are.

It still feels too good to be true, there is still the underlying anxiety that Hobie will change his mind and remember his no consistency no labels mentality.

Still, you giggle when you feel his large, calloused hands palm your bare waist and pull you impossibly closer. These are streets you’ve walked before, when Hobie lets himself into your bedroom on nights he comes home alone. You realize that Hobie is the sun, and you think you’ll forever be stuck in his gravitational pull.

That’s what scares you about Hobie. He’s always one breath away from running. He’s made you comfortable and close but not permanent. At the same time, he’s the most welcoming and kind person you’ve ever known and when he touches you—when he holds you close—you feel like you might just be home.

That’s what makes you keep coming back, too. You’ve never felt this comfortable or welcomed before and you’d kill for it to not be a dream.

“Are you just going to hold me against the kitchen counter all day?” you ask, your tone light. You manage to keep your secret inside, the fear that once this moment ends you won’t get another one looming in the back of your mind. You think back to the birthday picture, the messy cake on the table. The impending party your friends were throwing on the horizon.

Your mom told you the first time she met Hobie after you decided to be roommates that you would fall in love with this boy, and she was right.

Hobie’s smile falters slightly at your words. He’s not sure he’ll ever want this moment to end. Holding you and seeing your face—even if you’re not looking at him—is all he really wants to do.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone light as he pulls you closer and pushes your hips against the counter. His hands are still under my shirt, warm against your soft stomach. Maybe this moment is all he wants too.

But then, he takes a deep breath and smiles and the tension eases out of him a tiny bit.

“C’mon, you won’t deny sharing cake with the birthday girl, will you?” you say softly, leaning back into him to feel his strength.

“I wouldn’t deny you anything if I could help it,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. His fingers dig into you, holding you close in case he loses you forever. He presses his lips against your hair again and inhales deeply.

The world around you fades, every worry erased, replaced by the sensation of Hobie’s breath against your skin. Even if the moment ends, you’ll hold it close like the Polaroid he’ll soon keep in his wallet.

He moves first, releasing your waist slowly, letting the stolen shirt fall back down over your hips. You bracelet his wrist with your fingers, pulling him to the small kitchen table. You stand to cut the cake, plating you both thick slices. Your fingers are sticky with the excess frosting and sprinkles and crumbs. You take a measured risk and lick the knife clean.

“Do you want tea or coffee?” you ask, it wouldn’t be hard to put the kettle on.

“I’d love some tea,” Hobie says as he takes a seat at the table. He watches you with a soft smile as you cut the cake, your fingers sticky with frosting. The icing streaks your face from nose to cheek and he can’t help but smile. This is one of the many reasons he believes he’s falling in love with you.

“You’re so messy,” he chuckles. “Let me get a napkin.” His eyes scan over your form before he averts his gaze. You have no idea just how much your messiness makes him swoon.

“Did I get something on my face?” you ask, trying to brush it away and only succeeding on getting more frosting smeared onto your cheek. You watch Hobie’s lanky form retreat, smiling and shaking your head as you lick your fingers clean.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his tone amused and loving, “you’re just covered is all.”

“Here,” he says, a napkin in-hand, “let me get that.” He dabs the frosting gently away with the napkin, his fingers brushing against your skin. He catches your eyes for just a moment when he does, but he quickly averts his gaze.

“You must think I’m ridiculous,” you say with a giggle when you see just how much frosting he wipes off your face. There is a soft blush on your cheeks as you put the kettle on before pouring yourself a cup of coffee. The mug you use is lumpy, one of the only things that survived the kiln from the pottery class you took last summer.

You pour him a cup of tea, adding the right amounts of milk and sugar before handing it to him. “You’re not ridiculous at all,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. He smiles again, reaching for his tea and gulping it down. You can tell you’re making him shy.

“You haven’t tried the cake yet,” you murmur as you sit down, a full slice sitting in front of Hobie still.

“Oh, you’re right,” he says, setting down his tea. “I actually forgot to try it.” He reaches for his fork and cuts himself a piece, taking a bite. You can tell he likes it by just how big his smile is.

“Oh my God,” he says, “why didn’t I try this earlier? It’s amazing.”

You smile, your turn to feel bashful as you sit across from him. You’d celebrated 21 birthdays with cake for breakfast, but this one is your favorite by far. “I’ll make you one when your birthday comes around. I can get black sprinkles or something,” you say, your voice holding a hint of vulnerability in it. Of the two of you, you were always doing things to make Hobie’s life easier, be it collecting his laundry or leaving him leftovers for lunch. You’re willing to add baking a birthday cake to the list.

“I hope you do,” he says, his voice soft and sweet. There’s a small light in his eyes, but he averts his gaze quickly. He’s clearly trying to play it cool, and he’s doing a piss poor job of it.

“I can’t wait for mine,” he says, taking another bite of cake. “If this is what your baking is like, I think I’m going to insist we have an early birthday for me.” He grins when he says it, even though you know he’s not joking.

You smile, taking a bite. The pink and purple sprinkles crunch as you chew. “Well, your half birthday is coming up,” you say, a little sheepish that you remember the information so readily. “Maybe I’ll make you one.”

Hobie’s expression softens, his free hand fidgeting with a cloth that is on the table. He takes another bite of his cake to hide how flustered he is.

“That would be lovely,” he says after a moment. You can see him trying to play it cool, but he can’t stop his eyes from following you. He wants to watch you as you move. He wants to study you. He wants you. He can feel it in his gut.

You take a drink of your bitter coffee to offset the sweetness of the cake. His gaze is almost overwhelming. Even when his eyes trail away, you can feel his presence like a weight on your shoulders that you can never ignore. A blush crawls up over your face and you find yourself looking away, hoping the heat in your face will die down a little bit.

Then you decide against that, your gaze returning directly to meet his and you never want to look away again. His eyes almost melt you. He makes you forget to breathe, but you can deal with breathlessness for a little while.

You’re forced into shyness by the memory of the last time you felt this way, Hobie’s soft, even voice rejecting you filling your ears. You close your parted lips, redirecting your focus to the photo of just the cake with your loopy, girly handwriting beneath it that still sat on the table.

His eyes follow your gaze as you focus on something else and he can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He doesn’t like losing your attention. He leans back in his seat, propping his feet up on the other chair and taking a slow sip of his tea.

You catch his gaze again, and again he averts it. He knows that if he looks at you, it’ll be all over. He’d be pulling you around and pressing his lips down hard as he shows you just how true his feelings are.

You finish your breakfast, and you find the cake cover after digging in one of the cabinets under the counter. You cover it and place it in the fridge, having to squeeze some of Hobie’s beer out of the way to make space. Hobie remains seated, watching you move around the kitchen with his measured gaze.

Your phone ringtone blasts through the silence of the morning, which now was drifting into the afternoon. You jump, rushing for your phone. Your mother’s contact flashes on the screen.

“It’s my mom, she probably just wants to wish me a happy birthday,” you say, looking at Hobie as though you’re asking permission to take the call. You don’t want to ruin the intimacy you had been sharing, fearful you’ll never get it back.

“Yeah,” Hobie says, his voice soft and gentle. “You can take the call.” He knows how important family is to you and he’d hate to keep you from a call with your mother.

He leans back in the chair and takes a final sip of his tea before he sets the mug down. You see his eyes linger on yours for a beat or two before he looks away. He wants you to be happy—he always does. Even if it means he might have to sit in the background.

“Thank you, for the lovely morning,” you murmur, giving him one last look before you hit the ‘answer’ button and go to your room. Your mom is already screaming about the picture Hobie and you had taken. Her shrieks of glee make you giggle as you shut the bedroom door behind you, not without sparing one last look at Hobie as he sat at the kitchen table.

Hobie watches you leave and he fights against everything his body is telling him to do. He’s dying to follow you, to wrap his arms around you and kiss you like he wants to. He’s dying for you to look at him one more time. But he doesn’t.

He fights against his demons instead. He’s always had trouble with commitment and giving himself to someone makes him nervous. It scares him. It worries him.

He doesn’t want to lose you. But he’s terrified of loving you.

The rest of the day progresses without event. You only run into Hobie once in the short trek from the kitchen to his room, mumbling something about how his friend Miles needed his advice. You were watching Twilight to kill the time, something Hobie would have never agreed to do even on your birthday.

The production of getting ready feels monotonous as you shower, do your hair, and apply your makeup. It feels like a fugue state as your favorite playlist fills the silence, you can’t help but wonder if Hobie will bother to show up or not.

By the time your friends come to retrieve you in the Uber, Hobie still hasn’t emerged from his room since your brief run in. You are wearing a dress that glitters when you move, paired with black platform heels and a small black handbag. You let your hair loose down your shoulders in meticulously done beach curls. No matter how much effort you’d put in, it felt like a waste of time when you looked at his closed bedroom door.

“I’m leaving for the club!” you call out to Hobie, waiting momentarily for a response you don’t receive before you shut the front door and rush to the Uber.

Hobie’s on his bed when he hears your voice, his expression darkening. The room’s curtains are shut and all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing. It’s hot in his room and he wishes for a fan. It’s quiet—too quiet.

He wants to follow you, but he can’t. The thought of another step towards commitment makes his head spin. He wants you but he can’t do this, not without being sure. That’s the problem though. He’s never sure of anything aside from the dizzying panic you make him feel.

The club is busy when you arrive, your friends from college having congregated for the event amongst other miscellaneous club goers. You are plied with congratulations and shots upon arrival, along with a silver sash that says ‘Birthday Girl’ in looping script. You nearly cry, the effort and love you feel overwhelming you a bit as your friends place the sash over your head and adjust it perfectly in place. It’s such a stark contrast from the morning, but still feels less satisfying.

The alcohol lowers your inhibitions and ignites your blood, you feel like you can dance for hours. The club is sweltering and the music is loud. You finally manage to find a lull to escape to the bathroom for a moment, promising your friends that you will make it okay on your own. You hide in a stall, taking a moment to catch your breath. You pull your phone out of your bag hopefully only for it to deflate when you see there’s still nothing from Hobie.

The alcohol lubricates your jumbled thoughts about Hobie as you look at your text thread. The last thing he’d sent you was a photo of the small bar crowd his band had played in front of a few days ago. You bite your glossed lip, teetering on the edge of a decision.

You open your camera app, angling your phone so you can see just enough cleavage down the front of your dress and the toilet is out of the frame. You take a selfie, suddenly realizing you look drunk but you don’t care. You are drunk and it’s your birthday. You consider that to be permission granted as you send it to Hobie, typing ‘miss u’ in all lowercase letters after it.

A notification pops up on Hobie’s phone as he’s lounging in bed, his headphones plugged into his cellphone while he listens to music. He’s not doing anything productive when the notification comes up, his finger tapping along to the rhythm of the song before he unlocks his phone.

A jolt of shock courses through his body, his breath catching in his throat as he sees your photo on his screen. His eyes go wide and he quickly replies, “I miss you too.” His breath catches in his throat and he bites his lower lip.

You squeal audibly when he texts back, thankfully the music and the other women in the bathroom cover the sound. “U do?” you reply, leaning against the wall of the bathroom stall. You look at the photo you had sent him again. God, you look so drunk.

“Of course,” Hobie replies quickly, his pulse quickening at the thought of you being drunk. He loves when you’re a little tipsy—your words get sweeter and your harsh edges get a little smoother.

“How’s the party? Missing you right back.” He looks at your photo with a little jolt of lust. You might look drunk in the picture, but you look hot. Your hair is mussed and your eyes are glassy and unfocused as you pout softly at the camera.

“Club’s not the same wirhout u.” You type, not even noticing the misspelling. You hit send, knowing you really only have a few more minutes before your friends come to find you. A birthday girl can’t leave her party for long.

He’s not expecting you to text back so quickly and as the notification chimes in his phone, he sits up in bed to look at it. He has to resist the urge to text you again in fear of being too clingy. In his eyes, he’s already a little too clingy.

He decides to wait for another notification. You might have just said the club is boring without him, but you at least sent this message. Your words and that picture of you will have to be enough for him tonight.

He stares at his phone for the next few minutes.

Your friends come to collect you, making you forget about the moment for a little. They call your name as they enter the bathroom, yelling something about how your song is being played and you are desperately needed on the dance floor.

Twenty minutes pass before you think about Hobie again. You were handed a shot of Jäegermeister—your favorite and Hobie’s worst nightmare. You decide to take a video as you take it. Normally, you would rather die than record yourself in public but liquid courage courses through your veins. The lights are pulsing around you, the sequins on your dress lighting up as you raise the shot glass to the selfie camera and knock the shot back.

You watch the video loop as you contemplate it. Your cheeks are flushed, makeup is a bit messy, and you shine with sweat. But, fuck it. You send it to Hobie anyways, typing a quick ‘cheers 💕’ to accompany it.

You can tell that Hobie’s not doing much of anything because he responds within half a minute of you sending your text, his fingers typing up quite a long message for Hobie.

“God, you’re so cute.” He stares at it for a bit, watching the video on loop before he texts back again. “Also, that dress is gorgeous on you. Can I see it up close?” It feels scandalous the way he texts so forwardly to you, you rarely communicated your desires to one another.

You blush when you read the text, the alcohol and Hobie’s implication making your head spin. “Tried to catch u before I left the apartmenr :('' you send back, again littered with errors. You think about how you called out to him as you left, not getting a response or a goodbye.

“Wish you did,” he replies. Hobie smiles and he takes another look at your photo. Your dress clings to you in just the right places and your makeup is smudged in the perfect way.

“I love your hair like that,” he texts before he takes a breath and adds, “and the way you look at me makes my breath stop. I want to kiss you so bad, but I can’t.”

You can’t hold your excitement at his text, getting the attention of those with you. Your friends notice, the girls looking over your shoulder at the thread. One confiscates your phone, typing before hitting send without showing you the message.

You look at your phone when she gives it back. “Club Wolf, come get her. We want to make sure she gets home safe,” your friend had sent. You roll your eyes, knowing that you were nowhere close to being wasted enough for Hobie to have to come save you.

Hobie doesn’t hesitate to respond to your friend’s text. “I’ll be right there.”

“Oh my god!” you screech when you get the text back, grabbing your friend’s shoulder with excitement. She takes your phone for the rest of the night, putting it in her bra. After a few moments you let it go, getting convinced to dance with them more as one of your favorite songs starts to blare through the speakers.

Once he’s up and dressed, he downs a few shots for courage before he takes off towards the club. When he gets there, he takes a moment to stand outside the building as he takes a deep breath; his heart’s in his throat, his palms are sweaty. He’s here for you. He knows that. But he’s also going to have to face the fact that he dropped everything to run to your aid.

“Let me buy you a drink?” a random man that had come along to meet some of your friends asks you. In your state you eagerly agree, assuming he is being kind to the guest of honor. You follow him to the bar, scanning the room to see if Hobie had showed up yet. You order another of your favorite drinks and sip on it while chatting idly with the man. He’s decent, but you’re not paying much attention to the conversation as you sip your drink and look around the club.

Hobie walks through the club, his eyes darting around. When he sees you with the random guy, he frowns before he forces himself to push forward. He’s only slightly jealous. You don’t owe him anything. He just knows that he doesn’t want you with anyone else.

He pushes past a wall of people before finally reaching you. He taps the other guy on the shoulder before gently grabbing you by the elbow and pulling you away from him. He doesn’t say a word to the guy, only glaring at him before he leads you away.

“Hobie!” you exclaim as his hand closes around your elbow, already completely forgetting about the random man. The liquid swirls in your glass as you go up on your tiptoes to loop an arm around his neck and pull him into a hug. You have to do that even in heels.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” you say, your voice slightly slurring as you release him. You take another sip of the drink, wiping a bit of the alcohol off the corner of your lips with your thumb and licking it off.

“I couldn’t resist,” he replies, hugging you close and planting a kiss on your cheek. One hand finds its way onto your hip as the other reaches up towards your hair, fingers running through the ends of your hair—he just had to touch it. It seems like a crime to keep your hair so far away from him.

“I almost didn’t go in because I saw you here with this guy.” He gestures to the random man you were just talking with and his lips curl up in a scowl.

You frown for a moment. “Screw that guy,” you say loudly, the alcohol letting all your feelings simmer just under the surface. You can feel your friends watching like hawks. You look Hobie up and down, realizing that he was dressed in black on black on black. But he looked good, he’d put on chains and his chunky silver rings and smudged eyeliner around his eyes in the way you liked. His leather vest settled nicely on his shoulders, covered in studs and patches for bands and pins.

Not to mention that his hand on your waist made you feel grounded for the first time since you had shared breakfast together.

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you close to him and his lips fall to your ear. “You look beautiful,” he breathes before he whispers, “and you smell even better.”

His lips skim just above your neck, his mouth breathing warm breath on your skin. He can tell that you like it. The way your head tilts back, the way your eyes flutter closed. He knows you like this. A lot of time spent with one another gave him the upper hand in knowing all of your tells.

“Oh now you’re just being nice because it’s my birthday,” you murmur, blinking up at him sweetly. The light reflected off your dress in different colors, throwing patches of pinks and blues onto Hobie’s body.

He shakes his head, his lips still hovering just above your neck as he whispers, “no, this is just me being truthful.”

Even as he’s saying this, he’s not sure what he’s planning to do. He wants to kiss you, he wants to hold you tight and keep you close to him. But he’s never been so vulnerable. He can’t just take you from the club. He needs to know what you want.

“You smell of vanilla, and jasmine,” he adds, his lips finally finding your skin and kissing it. You shiver when he kisses your neck, the feeling of his lips igniting a fire on your skin. His lip ring is cold as it presses into the delicate skin, but you don’t care.

“I-I used that body wash you like,” you say like an idiot, your voice coming out before you even had the time to process what you were saying. Your free hand found the smooth plane of his shoulder as the other still held your drink. You took another gulp of it in an attempt to calm down.

His hand tightens around your waist, pulling you back into him. His tongue lightly brushes against your skin, exploring the lines of your neck as he kisses you again and again. You sigh into his touches, your hand curling around the back of his neck. Even drunk, you’re careful not to touch his hair.

“I didn’t get to give you a present,” he teases before whispering again, “and I know exactly what you want.” His hands move up from your waist and towards your hair, fingers wrapping around strands of it before he grips it tightly and plants his mouth on yours.

You gasp initially, melting into his arms. You nearly drop the glass you’re holding, but somehow Hobie has the good sense to pull it from your hand and place it on a table next to him; his lips never leaving yours. Your eyes slip closed as your fingers wrap around the collar of his vest and you pull him close to you. Hobie tastes like peppermint and a hint of rum, which makes you want him more.

You can feel his grip tighten, Hobie desperate for you; desperate to have your touch. His tongue dances as he kisses you with all the passion and love he’s thought about giving you. Your hands grip him and push him closer into you, your body pressed so tightly against his that you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

His breath is warm on your lips as he continues, trying to kiss you harder as if he can transfer the feelings that are growing inside of him onto your body. He only wants you.

You can hear your friends cheering over the club music as you part, your lipgloss is smeared onto his lips. You laugh, wiping away the sticky substance with your thumb. “Can you take me home, Hobie?” you ask softly, still holding him close with your other hand.

Hobie’s breath catches in his throat as he hears your friends cheering you both on and he looks over his shoulder with a sheepish smile before he turns back to glance at you.

For as shy as he is with your friends, he’s not afraid to stare at you. Your eyes look like they’re almost glowing beneath the lights of the club as you ask him to take you home. He nods without hesitation. Nothing could stop him from spending time with you tonight. Nothing should.

Your friend hands you your phone back as you lace fingers with Hobie. So many firsts in one night, for all the times you’d slept together in the past you had never kissed or held hands. He tugs you gently out of the club as you pound the rest of my drink and leave it on the bar.

The night air is cool and brisk, but it still isn’t enough to sober you up completely. Thankfully it’s a short walk. You kick off your heels, your feet pressing against the dirty pavement. You had put on stockings under your dress to beat the cold, so they provide a thin barrier but nothing that actually will keep you clean. You are a bit of a messy person anyway, Hobie knew that.

Hobie’s mind is racing as he walks out of the club with you, your fingers looped with his own. He’s trying to decide what to say and do as he walks beside you. He can see you kicking off your heels and stepping on the cold pavement with your barely covered feet; a part of him wants to tell you to be careful, but he doesn’t, he can’t. He's too deep in his mind, he’s past the point of making rational decisions. He’s too far gone.

Hobie guides you back to the apartment, walking at a slower pace so you can keep up. “Wow, no telling me to be careful?” you tease softly as you walk, the breeze whipping your hair and dress around. You’re on cloud nine, the feeling of Hobie’s fingers laced with yours feeling like victory.

He bites his lip to stop himself from telling you to be careful; he wants, no, he desires to tell you how much he cares for you. He wants to say all the words that are dancing on his tongue. The words he’s been dying to say to you.

He wants this moment to never end. He just wants to stand right here, right beside you, with your fingers laced into his.

But he doesn’t do anything. He’s scared, scared he’ll mess something up. Scared that you don’t see him that way.

“Hobie,” you whine softly, recognizing that look on his face as he spirals into his thoughts. You stop walking, even when he softly tugs your hand. He turns to you, his brow furrowed in confusion.

You reach up, tapping your fingertips in the center of his forehead. “You’re stuck up here, come be with me,” you whisper, your words slurring a touch as you do.

His heart skips a beat when you tap your fingers to the center of his forehead. You might as well have just hit him with a defibrillator, Hobie’s entire body jolts with surprise.

He looks down at you with eyes wide. It takes him a moment to process what’s just happened. “Huh?” he asks, his voice barely more than a hushed whisper. He feels like he’s on a bad first date; he has no idea what the right move is and is almost afraid to make any move at all.

You smile at his confusion. “Good, you’re back.” You start walking again, this time you take the lead as you zigzag drunkenly to your apartment. Your black strappy heels dangle from the hand that isn’t holding Hobie’s. “You haven’t said a word since you whisked me away from the club,” you say, looking at him over your shoulder momentarily before continuing to walk. Your feet were starting to feel the cold.

“I… uh…” Hobie takes a long, deep breath before he continues, “I don’t know if I should say anything.”

He glances down at your bare feet and frowns. “Your feet are going to be cold,” he mumbles before he looks up at you again. “Should I say anything?” He asks again, “Or… should I keep my mouth shut?”

You have no idea how much he’s dying to say something to you. He’s so close, he’s practically begging you to give him the push.

“Hobie, I never want you to keep your mouth shut,” you say, stating it as if it’s an obvious fact. You can see your building approaching at the end of the block.

His angular features bloom with surprise at your answer and he can barely hold in the smile that’s trying to break out on his face. “Okay… okay good. Glad to hear it.” He swallows in lieu of saying anything else.

Your apartment is so close, he’s tempted to rush to get there. He’s trying to distract himself by finding something else to talk about. Anything else but his own feelings.

“Where’d you get that dress? It’s beautiful on you.”

You snort softly, “you don’t remember? We went shopping together. You bought your Dead Kennedys patch that day.” You look up at Hobie’s face, still walking a little ahead of him. You hope your eyes convey what you’re wanting them to, the alcohol still feels like it’s setting you on fire.

Hobie is about to say yes, he remembers without even recalling the memory before he remembers what happened that day a few weeks ago. It feels like something out of a dream, a distant fantasy. He remembers having you pressed into the corner of the dressing room with a hand over your mouth, but not the dress you bought.

His eyes dip to study the pavement, his voice slightly deeper than it usually is. “I remember.”

He can’t help it. The thoughts have been brewing in his gut, making his stomach ache like a sore tooth. He’s sick of waiting and wants to just get over it.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells you, his voice barely above a whisper.

His voice is almost quieter than the wind, but you hear it. You nearly stumble before turning to face Hobie. The excitement is there, your heart feels like it’s leaping out of your chest. Your brain short circuits as it processes what he said, not sure what to do with the information. You finally manage to spit out: “I’m in love with you, too.” Albeit you’re much louder than he is.

Hobie looks almost overwhelmed by your response and he opens his mouth to say something and closes it again. His heart skips a beat and the words that were about to cross his lips are long lost to the wind.

“You’re in love with me?” he asks, his voice still barely above a whisper, “like… in love with me?”

“Yeah, Hobie. Wasn’t it obvious?” you say, fidgeting with the heels you were still carrying.

He’s silent for a moment, trying to take in what you’re saying. “No,” he responds, “it- it wasn’t.”

“I just—“ he starts before he shakes his head. Words are failing him and it’s getting on his nerves. He doesn’t want to say anything stupid.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Look, this is going to sound dumb, and I’m only asking because I have to know…” he pauses and swallows, his eyes trained and focused on yours, “… can I kiss you?”

“Didn’t you kiss me already… at the club? As my birthday present?” you ask in a teasing tone, stepping closer to Hobie on the sidewalk. His sweet nature makes you smile widely. Your feet are borderline hypothermic but you don’t care, you won’t dare ruin this moment.

It takes all of his willpower to not lean forward and press his lips to yours. He can feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, like it’s fighting to tear itself out of his ribcage, desperate for freedom.

“I want to kiss you again. Just one more time. Just for me.” He looks at you with pleading eyes, trying to tell you with a look what he’s unable to in words.

“Well it better not be our last time kissing, Hobie Brown,” you say, reaching up and curling your hand around the collar of his shirt. Where he is shy, the alcohol in your system makes you bold. You yank him down, stretching on your frozen tiptoes to press your lips to his.

Hobie’s body jolts in surprise but it doesn’t stop him from leaning into the kiss. He wraps his arms around your back and presses closer to you, his body shivering in response.

Your lips are cold, but they send sparks through his entire body, causing his fingers to clench around you with a strength he didn’t know he had. His lips move against yours with passion, he’s unable to control himself. It’s you. It’s always been you for him.

You pull away after a few moments, grinning at him. “Now can we get back to the apartment before they have to amputate my feet due to hypothermia?” you ask, “I promise there’s more kisses for you there.” Your gaze flickers over his face. You feel electric, the song and dance you two have done for the past years settling into something new.

Hobie smiles back at you before he glances down at your feet. The skin looks like it could be frost bitten and numb already.

“We really should get you inside,” he says, “you can warm up your cheeks and feet.”

He turns and starts walking forward, but then he pauses again and turns to face you. His eyes drift down to your lips before he leans toward you once again, but this time it’s not a slow, romantic kiss—it’s a desperate one. And he’s not stopping at your lips.

“Hobie!” you exclaim as he kisses from your lips down your neck all the way to your collarbone. “Now if I freeze out here on my birthday I’m blaming you!”

"I take responsibility," he breathes against your neck before he plants kisses along your shoulder, "because this will be the best birthday you've ever had." His hands travel along your hips before he gently pulls you into him.

Your body is finally warmed by the heat of his lips and he holds you, his fingertips tracing the curve of your hip and lower back. He's so lost in the moment he nearly forgets to breathe.

"It's all I want for you," he tells you again and again, his lips moving to your collar bone and throat.

Someone in a car driving by wolf whistles, making you part. You’re shivering as you look at each other as though you were seeing each other for the first time. Your teeth chatter in the wind. When you put on this outfit you had imagined taking a cab home after the party.

Hobie glances over his shoulder at the driver who catcalls you and he rolls his eyes. "Come on," he urges, "your feet can still freeze, let's get you in."

He wraps his arm around you as he walks, his fingertips pressing gently against your skin and trying to warm you up. Your hair whips against you and you can still feel the warmth of his lips on your skin. His other hand rests at your side, close enough for you to take if you wanted.

You do, your other hand holding your shoes as you finally climb the steps to the apartment. Hobie pulls out his keys swiftly and unlocks the door in a fluid motion. The heat from inside makes you sigh contentedly.

He leads you inside, and as soon as the door closes behind you, the cold is gone. A rush of warm air hits you, almost like stepping outside after being on a plane.

He closes the door and locks it behind you. “Thank God,” he mutters, “I was afraid you’d freeze your feet to the sidewalk.” His eyes drift down to your shoes and he sighs. “Go put them in your room.”

He gestures toward the door but doesn’t say another word. Instead, he watches you, his eyes glued to your movements.

Usually, you’re combative when drunk, but something about the affection in his voice makes you listen. You briefly look at yourself in the mirror. You look a little worse for wear, your hair is a little tangled and your makeup is smudged. You wipe some from under your eyes and try to untangle the bigger knots before going back into the living room.

Hobie waits for you in the living room, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 2 a.m. and he’s exhausted, but his heart is too full for him to sleep. You come back looking like a drunk mess which would usually make him laugh, but he’s too lost in you.

He’s still staring at you, his dark eyes studying you and finding everything about you that he thinks is beautiful.

“Help me unzip my dress,” you say to him quietly, turning and pulling your hair over your shoulders. You have the soft, stolen t-shirt of his in your hand. You’re aching to put it on.

Hobie doesn’t say a word, he just takes himself over to you, stands behind you, and starts unzipping your dress. The fabric slips down your back, exposing the skin of your shoulders. Your hair drapes over your back, still damp with sweat and alcohol. He takes in your beauty.

He smiles at you again as he pulls the dress down your arms. When he finishes, you stand in nothing but your bra and underwear and he looks a little flushed. “I think you might want something a little warmer,” he says, his tone light and teasing.

You roll your eyes, pulling Hobie’s large t-shirt over your head. Plus it wasn’t like anything under your dress was new to Hobie. “You are such a momma hen,” you say to him, turning around with a smile. The contrast is interesting. There is still glitter all over your body and your hair is still curled as you wore his faded, ratty t-shirt that really should have been tossed.

You’re an absolute mess and he can’t help but stare at you. In that moment he realizes just how hard he falls for you, and for the first time in his life, he’s not afraid to fall.

“You’re drunk,” he says with a chuckle.

“I know,” you say, laughing back. “I probably look like a crazy person.” You run a hand through your hair, getting stuck at a knot, “hopefully you’re still attracted to me.”

His eyes light up when you say that and he shakes his head. “I’m very attracted to you,” he replies, his tone flirtatious and playful.

He reaches out and pulls you into him, embracing you tightly. You feel his warmth through his T-shirt. “I’m more than attracted to you. You’ve taken up residence in my head.” He kisses your cheek before he pulls away, smiling again.

The alcohol is starting to wear off and he’s starting to notice you shiver again. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

You nod complacently, surprised when he starts pulling you to his room. All the times you’d slept together in the last had been in your bed. You can’t even remember a time you had been inside his room.

He pauses outside the door and turns to you, his voice quieter than before.

“I need you to know something, and I don’t want you leaving this room until you do.”

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, you can see how much this moment means to him.

“You’re more than just my roommate.” Your name falls softly from his lips, his accent curling around it like a blanket. His eyes hold yours, almost like he can see your soul. “You’re everything that’s worth fighting for, every day that makes the world better, every beautiful moment, every laugh. You… you are my home.”

You feel too many emotions flood your mind as you look up at him. “God, I wish I wasn’t drunk right now so I could think of something beautiful to say to you,” you say, laughing softly.

“I do love you Hobes, I have for years.”

He smiles at you as you laugh. You look so beautiful, so amazing to him. And you don’t even need to say anything for him to know what you feel.

He pulls you inside his room, closes the door, and sits down on his bed. His hands are on your chin, his fingers tracing the contours of your mouth. Your eyes, your cheeks. He releases you to stand in the center of his bedroom. You are looking around his room, taking in all of the things that make Hobie Hobie. He has two guitars mounted on the wall, there’s some laundry on the floor. His walls are littered with posters and paint and memorabilia, and he has two large bookshelves on the side of this room that are nearly full.

“Come here,” he rasps. “I want to kiss you.” His voice brings you back to the present as you make your way toward him, standing between his legs as he sits on his unmade bed.

He can see the spark of excitement in your eyes as he guides you to stand between his legs. Your face is at the perfect height for him to kiss you again. He lifts your chin and pulls you close. Hobie’s hands travel over your back and shoulders, the backs of his fingers trailing along your skin.

“Close your eyes,” he sighs, his voice hoarse, and his mouth collides with yours, soft, gentle, and eager. He holds you close, embracing you like his life depends on it. You interlock your fingers behind the nape of his neck to ground yourself with touch. The kiss is needier, your teeth knocking with his on occasion as his nose presses along yours. The ring through his nostril is cold, tickling you occasionally.

“God, I love you so much,” he says into you. The few shots of alcohol have worn off and the words spill out of him so quickly.

The glitter shimmers on your skin and the light from his lamp caresses your body. Hobie breaks the kiss and gazes at you, his lips still tasting like yours.

You open your eyes as he pulls away, a smile blooming on your face. The alcohol is still strong in you; if anything, its warmth has worn off but the buzzing in your head still continues. You nuzzle into his neck, pressing your cold nose to his skin. “I love you, Hobie.”

He runs his fingers along your arm, his touch gentle and loving. He leans back and looks at you as he rests his weight on his hands.

“Can I ask you something?” He raises a brow, “and I mean really ask you something?” He sounds nervous, anxious.

“Yeah,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek at the tone of his voice. You feel your brows knit together in concern as you look up at him, my ears still ringing from the nightclub.

“What are we?” He looks at you, still nervous but determined. You may have had some drinks but your eyes are bright and focused on him.

“Like—“ he swallows back the lump in his throat before he speaks again. “What are we doing? Are we friends? Are we something more? Are we even in this at all?” He laughs nervously, looking away.

“You’ve gotta be the one to make that choice, Hobie,” you say softly, your brows still pinched together as you look at him. “The last time this happened…” tears well in your eyes as you think about it, the alcohol bringing the emotions to the surface. “You shut me down. Said you didn’t like labels or consistency. So now you have to choose.”

Hobie swallows hard as your eyes well up with tears. You look so beautiful in that moment, the alcohol on your skin sparkling in the light from the bedside lamp.

Hobie hooks his hands under the backs of your knees and pulls you to his lap in a surprising show of strength. His calloused fingers wipe your tears away, and part of you knows if your makeup wasn’t ruined before it definitely is now. “If you’re gonna break my heart, you may as well do it now,” you whisper, laughing softly through the tears. The ridiculousness of the situation gets to you.

Hobie laughs aloud, relieved to see you laugh. “Darling, there’s no way in hell I could ever break your heart.”

He looks at you, his eyes holding yours, his fingertips caressing your skin. “I’m in love with you.” His eyes dance with moonlight slotting through his window. “I can’t promise you the world. What I can promise you is that when I walk out the door, I’ll come back to you, because you’re home to me.”

“Promise?” you whisper, holding up your pinky for him to take. Pinky promises are stupid, but you are a strong believer in them. Hobie knows that.

Hobie chuckles and he holds up his pinky, intertwining his finger with yours. His hands are rough from playing the guitar, but his touch is soft and gentle right now.

"I promise."

He pulls you into him, his arms wrapped around your body. "No matter what, I’ll find my way back to you. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted and... you make me happy."

You bury your face in his chest, nodding as my fingers tangle in the ripped shirt Hobie wore. He smells so comforting, like sandalwood and cinnamon. You fit together perfectly, your bodies curved together and your cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

He rests his head atop yours, his arms still curled around you. The two of you sit on the bed, and he can feel the warmth of your body spread through his fingers.

You try to stifle a small yawn, hoping Hobie didn’t hear it. You just wanted to keep talking with him. This all felt like a dream, you being in his room, in his bed. You worry that tomorrow you’ll wake up and you will go back to being roommates like none of this ever happened.

“Oh, I felt that yawn,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy. “C’mon, you can tell me everything tomorrow.”

He tucks his arms around you again and shifts his weight, rolling you to him so he’s now in the big spoon position.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Goodnight,” you hear him whisper your name softly as you drift off.

He’s content to just hold you in his bed all night. As you sleep, his breathing softens and his hand rests on your hip.

#hobie brown x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #hobie brown fanfiction #reader insert #afab reader #hobie brown x you #modern au #atsv fanfiction #spider punk #hobie brown fluff #hobie brown x fem!reader

[simsphonysims]

Simsphony’s CC LIST - complete

Hi everybody!

The list of CC LINKS from all the creators and packs that I have in my game is something that I wanted to do for the longest time but I've never quite had the time to do it.

So I finally decided to do it for you no matter what and here it is! 

From now on you'll be able to find all of my cc here on this list. If I add something to my game I'm going to upload the list, and if I'm using something just once, I'll include the link from that cc in a regular post separately.

Anyways! I'm hoping your life is going to be much easier now!

If you like my work please be so kind and support me on Ko-fi ♡

Love you all and happy simming!  

AROUND THE SIMS 4 

Gardening table  American diner 

AWINGEDLLAMA 

Boho living stuff pack  Blooming rooms kit  Apartment therapy 

BRAZEN LOTUS (https://www.brazenlotus.com/)

Greenhouse  Jaipur rugs  Selene's & Mind's Eye bed set  Cozy crafter bed set  Separated beds - original  Incantation & apothecary clutter  Spellbound clutter  Baskets & Ironing board table  Bridal closet  Vampire objects separated  Glimerbrook terrains  Archaeology table clutter  Princess Cordelia's clutter  Cats & Dogs clutter  Bulb string lights 

Separated Art - Base game 

BREEZE MOTORS - always direct links

CHARLY PANCAKES 

All her cc in one folder  The lighthouse collection  The strandkorb  Maple & S. constractions Pt.1

Maple & S. constractions Pt. 2  Precious promises  Selection one  Lavish  Soak  Slouch  Miscellanea  Smol  Munch Pt. 1  

Munch Pt. 2 

Dinna  Modish  Insomnia  Twist of fate The candle 

COWBUILDS (https://www.patreon.com/cowbuild)

Free kid's clutter 

FELIXANDRE patreon - Early access

Fayun 2

FELIXANDRE free 

Fayun 1

Grove Pt. 1  

Grove Pt.2

Grove Pt.3

Grove Pt.4

Berlin Pt.1  

Berlin Pt.2

Berlin Pt.3

Shop the look 1  Shop the look 2  Colonial Pt.1

Colonial Pt.2  

Colonial Pt.3  Paris Pt.1 

Paris Pt.2  

Paris Pt.3  Florence Pt.1 

Florence Pt.2 

Florence Pt.3 

Florence Pt.4 

Kyoto Pt.1  

Kyoto Pt.2  

Kyoto Pt.3  London Interior 

London Exterior  Gothic Revival Interior 

Gothic Revival Exterior Gatsby/Art Deco set  Georgian September 2017 - Schwerin + Petit trianon  October 2017 - Schwerin + Gothic  November 2017 - Petit Trianon  December 2017/ July 2018  January 2018 February 2018 April 2018 - Schwerin  May 2018 - old Paris objects  September 2018 - Louis VX  July 2019 - Canopy Marie Antoinette  Greece  Egypt La Galerie des Glaces - Versailles 

HANRAJA - always direct links

Mini set 13  Mini set 14  Mini set 35  Mini set 20  Tray 02  Bayong Rattan bags

HARRIE

Kwatei 2  (Early access)

Kwatei 1 

Shop the look 1 Shop the look 2 Octave Pt.1 

Octave Pt.2 

Octave Pt.3 

Octave Pt.4  Spoons Pt.1 

Spoons Pt.2 

Spoons Pt.3 Brutalist Brownstone Pt.1 

Brownstone Pt.2 

Brownstone Pt.3 Country Pt.1 

Country Pt.2 

Country Pt.3 Halcyon Stockholm Porto  Quilted dreams  Heritage Pt.1 

Heritage Pt.2 5k Follower gift Jungle Adventure Overrides

HOUSE OF HARLIX 

Baysic Harluxe  Orjanic Pt.1 

Orjanic Pt.2 Livin' rum  The kichen  The bafroom  Tiny twavellers  Jardane 

KING FALCON

Fuvwara 1 

Fuvwara 2  Stone railing set Vol.1 

Stone railing set Vol.2 

KIWISIM4 

Piha living  Blockhouse Kichen  Blockhouse Outdoor  Blockhouse Hallway  Blockhouse Study  Blockhouse Bathroom  Blockhouse Kids  Blockhouse Bedroom  Blockhouse Dining  Onehunga Living 

LILI'S PALACE 

Intarsia  Wainscot wonderland Folklore  Budapest Neoclassical set  Pumpkin carving table  Jungendstil tiles  Portraits in copper  Zsolnay ceramic roof tiles 

LINZLU 

1920 Bedroom set  Chrome Co.  Sea princess secretary desk  Drainboard sinks  Vintage gas cooker  Frontier items  Antique radio  Country furniture  Rocking horse 

Travel trunk 

Pinecone decor

Samantha’s collection

LITTLE CAKES 

Poor bunny  Flowers and things  Rustic elements  Vintage clutter set 

LONELY BOY 

Victorian house exterior set  Antique Victorian wallpaper 

MAGNOLIAN FAREWELL

Antique stacks

MAX 20

Poolside Lounge  Picasso Retro TV  Master bedroom  Cozy backyard  Holiday mini-pack Child dream pack  Classic kitchen  Happy ever after  Bathroom pack  Dining room  Fireplace  Christmas gift  Ikea chair  Autumn clutter 

MLY'S

Pufferhead  Tall bookcases  Simple clothes racks 

MR. OLKAN

Cool pools

MYSHUNOSUN

Moonwood garden  Simmify music nook  Midsummer eve  Lottie bedroom  Freja nursery  Nora living 

Luna bedroom

PEACEMAKER/SIMSATIONAL DESIGNS 

Austere building set  Atwood living  Bowed living  Cats and Dogs Siding  Caine living  Coba collection  Cozy knits  Derelict delights  Elsie bedroom  Graciously Georgian  Hamptons Hideaway  Hamptons Getaway  Hamptons Retreat  Hamptons Builtin  Hinterlands living  Hinterlands dining  Hinterlands bedroom  Hudson bathroom  Kitayama living Kitayama Bedroom  Kitayama dining  Lofte living  Mesh dump Nifty Knitting Buymode expanded  Paranormal Buymode Expanded  Romantic garden expanded  Rock'n Rockers  Roarsome kids bedroom  Splashback Glass Tiles  StrangerVille Buildmode Expanded  Vintage glamour  Volta  Whilloh kitchen 

PIERISIM 

Domaine du Clos 3  (Early access)

Domaine du Clos 2 

Domaine du Clos 1 MCM Pt.1  MCM Pt.2  MCM Pt.3  MCM Pt.4  MCM Pt.5  Winter garden Pt.1  Winter garden Pt.2  Maison Maulière  Coldbrew pt.1  Coldbrew pt.2  The livingroom mini kit  The office  Calderone bedroom  Rold Skov kitchen  Oak House Pt.6 + ADD ON Oak House Pt.5  Oak House Pt.4  Oak House Pt.3  Oak House Pt.2  Oak House Pt.1  Tidying up 

REIANARA 

Liberated get together fence

RUSTIC SIMS 

Careyes liv & din  Sayulita bathroom Gift  Sayulita bedroom  Talavera pop  Colonial Mexic set  Navajo  The painting of Bly Manor  Lofi 

RVSN 

Little Chef's toy kitchen  Body form displays  Anybody's dress bridal shop  Uplifting elevators Clothes minded accessories

S-IMAGINATION

Cottage kitchen  Nota Living Room  Oak&Concrete Patio 

SIMPLISTIC - I'll always give you the exact link because I'm using her wallpapers and there are millions of them on the site

SIXAM 

Bunk bed  Charming Chalet 

STRANGE STORYTELLER 

Sectional library  Parquet flooring  Crystal chandeliers  Baroque art  Aubusson rugs  Art set part 1  Christmas set 

SURELY SIM

The Tespa 

The kichen of tommorow

9021 Hoes Hotline 

Perfect party stuff 

Office space 

Joliebean High Society Pumps as Deco Shoes 

Atomic TV 

Fallout baby 

Retro refresh 

Scooby Doo! Where Are You? - Movie Poster 

SYB - SYBOULETTE

Spiral stairs 

THE CLUTTER CAT 

Mellow moods mini  (patreons only)

Mellow moods

Flower power (patreons only)

Busy Bee 

Japan Juice 

Cozy cocina 

Mamma mia 

Petits pirates 

222 

Kawaii kidz 

Winterfest wonders 

Mermaid Mansion Pt.1 (patreons only)

Mermaid Mansion Pt.2  (patreons only)

Farm friends (patreons only)

Spring spirits Pt.1 (patreons only)

Spring spirits Pt.2 (patreons only)

Spring Spirits + Mermaid mansion free

THE JIM 07

Fountain edge set  Versailes Treillage

THE TOWNIE ARCHITECT

Moderno

TUDS

Wave living  Base game curved windows  SHKR kitchen  Casa Caipira  Tiles  Ind Pt.1  Ind Pt.2  Ind Pt.3  Cross  Turn Living  Rope Lounge  Mirr kitchen  Vime closet MadeinBrazil collection - Clay water filters  Beam kitchen  Beam living Pt.1  Beam living Pt.2  Emma Collection 

#sims 4 cc list #sims 4 maxis match #sims 4 maxis match cc list #ts4 cc list #ts4 cc #sims 4 cc

[pinkiepiebones]

Passing this question back to you, how do you think Renfield felt after he was freed from Dracula and how did he cope (or not) ?

Terrified.

The day after Dracula's demise hordes of three-letter agencies descended on the apartment complex and the Lobo's estate to try to ascertain what the fuck had happened. Rebecca had sensed something like that happening and, after she and Robert revived his codependents group, she had driven Robert to his place so he could pack some things. "You're gonna crash with me a while," she said. It wasn't a question.

He picked up his Welcome mat and threw it down to the pile of Lobo and police bodies three stories down. His packing was rushed, but practiced. He had to learn how to flee places in a hurry over the decades. He had to learn how to move with blood sticking to his skin and wounds oozing. He had to learn to watch his hands move as a terrible voice roared in his head and claws wormed into his sinew. He turned to leave and startled at the sight of Rebecca sitting on his sofa.

"Dude, you took like three seconds." She frowned. "Did you just shove some shit in a grocery bag?" She stood, shaking her head. "C'mon big guy, let's try to not panic, okay?"

Robert nodded, obedient.

Rebecca found his backpack- not in use, sitting empty on the shelf in his closet, purchased because it made him smile (it was made to look as though it had been fashioned from sunny quilt blocks). Rebecca spoke gently, now, guiding him to pack three of most of his articles of clothing for the time being. There was no way to tell how long the investigations would take. "And we can always buy you more stuff," she added. She recounted a time when Kate had been packing for some trip in high school and their father had joked about the overpacking. "He said, 'funny how stores cease to exist when you travel, huh?' because she was gonna be gone for a week but she had like six suitcases..."

Robert nodded, attentive.

The ride back to Rebecca's house was quiet. Robert watched her most of the drive. He clambered out of the passenger seat and grabbed his backpack and followed her inside.

Rebecca guided him while telling him about her small house. He looked at the pictures on the wall in the hallway. He studied the lives inside the frames. Then he followed Rebecca into the guest room.

"You," she said as he neared, "need a shower. So do I, probably, but, y'know, age before beauty or whatever. I gotta go check the heater, so, uh." She spread her hands. "Make yourself at home, roomie."

Robert set his bag on the guest bed and stood in the middle of the room, the muffled sounds of suburbia beyond the heavy curtains overwhelming his senses. How often he had hunted in just such a world, how often those sounds- lawnmowers and dogs and children- had simply meant 'Master's meals.' He pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress a scream and the wave of nausea that hit him.

Your sole purpose in life is to serve me.

Robert swallowed his guilt and his self hatred and ventured back out into Rebecca's house.

Rebecca jumped when she turned to find Robert standing behind her.

"Fuck!"

"Is there anything I can do?"

She looked at him, scrutinizing. "I dunno, this thing's just getting on in years."

"I meant, uh, in general?" He smiled. "How can I be of service?"

"No."

"No?"

Rebecca stormed past him. "You are not replacing him with me, don't even start down that path."

Robert chuckled nervously. "Oh, I didn't mean-"

Rebecca turned back and took Robert's hands in hers. "I know you didn't mean it. But you gotta know that this codependency stuff is going to keep messing with you, right? So, just-" She squeezed his hands. "You keep yourself from trying to be servanty, okay? I'm a big girl, I've been takin' care of myself a long time. You only have to serve you, got it?"

Robert felt tears sting his eyes.

"I don't know how to do this. God knows I'm trying, but now that he's gone, his voice isn't in my head, I can finally hear my own thoughts, and..." Robert gently pulled away from Rebecca.

"All I can think about is him."

His friend nodded. "I mean, we did just chop him up and mix him in cement and dump him into the sewer. I'm thinking about him too." She smiled and patted his arm. "C'mon, let's get the last of his blood offa you, maybe that'll help."

Rebecca had an idea; instead of Robert taking a shower, she offered to help him wash his hair as he took a bath, and he was glad for it. He felt a bit silly sitting in her tub, his long legs bent and a towel shoved around his waist for his sense of modesty, but that silly feeling ebbed as the warmth of the water around him seeped into his tired bones and Rebecca carefully leaned over to scrub at his hair with something that smelled like chamomile and lavender. He damn near purred at the sensation of her blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and her calloused fingers winding through his hair. He leaned his head back so she could pour a cup of water on his head to rinse, careful to guide the shampoo suds away from his face.

Rebecca pulled a few towels from a cabinet and plopped them on the counter by the sink. "Okay, I think you can handle it from here. I'm gonna grab a shower and then we'll figure out dinner. Sound good?"

Robert nodded, content.

#renfield #renfield 2023 #I never actually fill prompts do I I just glance at them as I am running headlong into a different story

[klausinamarink]

In Thunder, Lightning, Or In Rain

rating: M | cw: major character death, mild gore | tags: witch Steve, necromancy, rituals, brief appearance of possessive Steve | wc: 992

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 20: Magic au

Despite the roar of thunder above him, Steve continued his trek into the woods. He stomped hard onto the still-fresh footprints of the crowd that had passed here. Beneath his boots, the ground smothered and turned the new trail into golden-red flecks of ember, floating towards the town by the growing winds.

The willow trees wept to Steve, their leaves brushing across his raised shoulders and wet cheeks. We tried to stop them. We heard his cries but we had done nothing. One older willow stopped him for a moment’s notice, pleading for his mercy. I offered shelter for you and your beloved but they burned my fingers when I reached out.

Steve forgave them all. You made your attempts but do not harm yourselves, he told them. The older willow tree wept again and let him go.

Lightning flashed in the sky. Steve sparsely caught his reflection on the bubbling creek. He looked disheveled. His hair was tangled in different directions, his clothes looked baggy, tears stained his cheeks, and his hands were already from gripping the shovel and ax for so long.

The creek with its minnows and newts lamented for him. We tried to stop them. We tried to drown them but they shoved his head into us. Our waters have always been refreshing to both of you so we couldn’t end him, even in his suffering.

Steve forgave them all. You were always kind and accommodating to us so do not poison your waters with your suffering, he told them and continued on his way.

As he reached the end of the trail, where the embers under his boots stopped burning at the tainted clearing, thunder and lightning embraced each other at once. Then it began to rain. Thick droplets landed on the new grave, twisting the torn up ground awake. They wailed to him.

They’ve hurt him. They hurt us. We tried to stop. But their feet trampled on us and spilled his blood like it was their precious alcohol. They’ve violated the grounds of your loving embraces into this.

Steve forgave them all. Please do not hurt yourselves, but take your revenge on anyone who trespassed here, he told them. The ruined ground wailed again, their cries going silent as Steve started digging.

They haven’t buried him too deep. When Steve saw why, his anger turned the thunder deafening.

They had cut Eddie’s body apart. His bloodied head was placed under his arm, which was missing a hand. His torso had chunks of flesh missing and was only attached to his legs by a single intestine. His feet looked like they had been broken by a hammer.

Steve kept his tears secure in his eyes, careful not to spill them onto Eddie’s remains as he tenderly lifted him out. Once his body was found whole, Steve wrapped him around a quilt like he was tucking in a child for a long journey.

Underneath his knees, the ground wailed again and turned angry, rolling down to the south. Steve stood up and picked up the ax again. The ground was already sinking a blond man, whom Steve recognized at once.

“Witch!” Jason Carver spat, his hair drenched on his forehead, “Release me and face punishment.”

Steve shed exactly three drops of tears as he raised the ax above him.

To revive a soul is to sacrifice a soul, no matter how good or wicked either may be.

—

In his secure and well-hidden covered wagon, Steve worked feverishly in the dark. He shook not with the cold, but with grief and exhaustion. He had rushed back to the town once the winds carried Dustin’s panicked news of the accusations against Eddie for suspected murder and witchcraft. But even though his return failed to prevent Eddie’s fate, Steve refused to let his beloved rot from such injustice.

The storm rattled on, contempt in his aid.

He finished the stitching, cutting the thread with his grandmother’s golden scissors. Then he took the moon-crescent silver knife and carved it into his left side. Steve focused onto the rapid plattering of the rain as the blade touched his sixth rib bone. Once the rib was cut, Steve dragged the knife so it slit easily through his flesh, allowing the bone to come out.

He gently placed his rob bone in Eddie’s hands, positioned to be crossed over his chest, right above where his heart would start again.

Steve lit the candles. Two on both sides of Eddie’s head and seven at his feet. Representing the two lives his lover will now have and the seven realms that gifted magic at every witch’s fingertips.

Steve placed his hands firmly on top of Eddie’s still chest. He sucked in a deep breath and, after hours of containment, finally screamed out his anguish.

In between the short pauses for air, Steve thought of every memory he had with Eddie. Their first run-in at the market, Eddie’s musical flirting, Steve growing a sunflower in between their cupped hands, their first lovemaking, and the very last kiss Eddie had given him when Steve had left.

The flames of the candles grew brighter and taller. Steve could no longer hear the thunder. His horrible cries filled the wagon more. He tasted the salt of tears as they fell onto Eddie’s unmoving face.

An ice-cold breeze passed through Steve’s body, silencing him. He dared not to look up, for no one knows what their own death would look like, even to the Foresights. He kept his eyes on Eddie, watching and waiting for the first sign of life.

A small light-blue wisp fled through Eddie’s lips. Then his eyes shot open, coughing and gasping for air. His chest finally heaved underneath Steve’s hands, though he only removed once he felt the confident heart beat.

As Steve held Eddie close and tight, thanking for his lover’s second chance, he Swore to him to never let Eddie escape his sight again.

#klaus writes #steddie #stranger things #steddieholidaydrabbles

[andmaybegayer]

HHhH I wanted to tumble-dry the quilt to revive it a little, it spent three weeks vacuum packed, but this bizzarely stupid "intelligent" washer/dryer decided (despite me explicitly specifying not to) to run some kind of hot "steam dry" cycle that looks like it has the same effect as a hot wash. Blue colour runs all over the place. Currently consulting with the relatives about solving colour runs while it goes for another cold wash, hopefully the steam cycle didn't make anything permanent. Fuck!

#it's bad! #quilts eventually recover from most classes of colour run but it's bad! #textiles #I did wash all the pieces before I even began but of course its cold wash

[zoethehead]

I was just thinking of this prompt.

Warning; it's a long one.

Edit; updated it a slight bit

(Tw's: implied nudity[non sexual], near death experience, concussion, broken bones, near drowning, pneumonia, and nature whump)

A whumpee is either being pursued by a whumper, or a beast of some kind.

The whumpee ends up slipping on some rocks eroded by the waves of a river, and....

They fall.

They slam against some sharp stones on the waterfall before they crash into the rushing river water on the way down.

The whumpee hits several rocks as they're dragged by a fierce current, their body being tossed like a ragdoll all the while.

They eventually pass out from the blow to the head that they took from one of the rocks.

-

-

-

A caretaker was nearby, taking a stroll, they gasped as they saw a person, unconscious and half submerged in water, several bones seemed to be broken on their body, and a creature was grabbing them by one arm, biting into it like it was a chicken leg.

The caretaker shooed the monster away, picking up the mangled body of the whumpee and performing cpr to hopefully revive the whumpee.

When the whumpee started breathing again, the caretaker quickly took off their cloak and wrapped up the whumpee in it, carrying them to a safe place.

-

-

The whumpee's injuries were now all patched up, and they were tucked into a cozy bed and left to rest.

-

For weeks, the whumpee was out of it. Their body sore, and feverish. The whumpee struggled to even draw a breath in from their pneumonia ridden lungs.

The caretaker worked endlessley to ensure that the whumpee would wake up, changing the bandages, applying herbs to wounds, and pouring medicine down the whumpee's throat...

-

Eventually, the whumpee woke up.

-

Their vision was hazed by smudges and blurs, barely coherent to their mind. The whumpee let out a groan as they came to. They felt a noticeable warmth surrounding their body.

They slightly peeled back the quilts, only to notice that the quilts and bandages were the only things on their bare, bruised and beaten body. They quickly jolted up in embarassment to try and cover themselves, only to feel a shooting pain suddenly burst forth and fry all of the nerves in their body. The whumpee let out a stifled grunt as their broken bones couldn't hold them up.

White spots and hazy blurs danced in their vision from the pain, as the whumpee felt a hand on their shoulder.

"Please lay back down, save your strength" a voice said, gently laying the whumpee back onto the bed, and tucking the quilt up to their chest.

The whumpee put one of their hands on their chest, feeling the bandages that went down their ribs and abdomen, the other arm rested atop the quilt.

"H-how long was I out for?" The whumpee managed to croak out, their throat as dry as sand.

"A few weeks, you kinda had me worried with how much you slept." The caretaker answered.

#nature whump #drowning #head injury #broken bones #injuries #injured #cpr #whump #whump scenario #whump prompt #knocked out #waking up #bandaged #implied nudity #nudity implied #weak #woozy #fantasy whump #nursed back to health

[unhonest-iago]

Or my fist will put you out

(The Bursona in this is Revivedbur but will still refer to him as Wilbur)

Fundy woke up for the 5th time in the last hour to his adopted kid Yogurt screaming. Having gone through the last 10 days on little to no sleep, he really wanted to punch the kid. Wasn’t the kid, Fundy just didn’t know what to do. He racked his brain, trying to think of who could help him. Phil? No, the bird brain would help but not without relentless mockery. Dad? No, that bridge was burned when he ‘supported’ Schlatt, even if he was acting as a spy. But that was Wilbur before he died. Surely this revived version would view him as his son, wouldn’t he?

A rather loud cry brought Fundy from his second guessing. All he knew was that he and Yogurt both needed sleep. Grabbing a pair of slippers and coat, he picked Yogurt up, dressing him in clothes warm enough for the weather outside. Walking to Revivedbur’s house in the woods, Fundy knocked on the door with Yogurt propped up on his hip. Wilbur quickly opened the door, eyebrow raised. ‘Son?’

‘What’s up Wannabe Apollo?’ Panicking when he saw his dad’s door start closing, planted his foot so the door would shut on it. ‘Dad, I need your help.’ Wilbur noticing the bags under his son’s eyes & the clothed lump on his hip, opened the door. Walking over to the fire, Wilbur added more kindling. ‘So who’s this little guy?’ offering to take Yogurt from Fundy. ‘Yogurt, I found him outside Las Nevadas, I couldn’t leave him there.’

‘So now you have a champion of your own?’

Nodding, Fundy tugged on his hair, ‘Thing is, I can’t get him to sleep and I didn’t know if I could come here or—‘

‘Look at me, it’s alright. Plus this time, I can be of use. Now, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Sit down.’ Returning Yogurt to Fundy, noticing the young snow fox was already sleeping from Wilbur’s humming. An old song that he would hum to Fundy, I Wanna Be In The Cavalry. One that his uncles would join in singing late at night when things were still peaceful.

Returning back w/ a little cup of what looked to be milk. Sheepishly, ‘I didn’t have any sippy cups…it’s angels milk.’ Fundy quickly helped, sitting Yogurt up to feed him. ‘It’s fine, what’s angel’s milk?’

‘Just steamed milk, little bit of vanilla and sugar. Works like a charm apparently. Phil taught me and now me to you.’ Wilbur’s humming along with Fundy burping Yogurt quickly put the snow fox to sleep. The two caught up, not bringing up any touchy subjects, both genuinely wanting to patch up their relationship.

Wilbur looking over to the duo, smiled when he heard Fundy’s snores. His chest rising and falling, Yogurt laying on top, burrowing his head into Fundy’s scruff. Getting up to head to bed himself, pulled a patchwork quilt over the two, kissing Fundy’s forehead. ‘I love you, my little champion.’

‘I know right now you can’t do much, but take care of my boy Yogurt, as he does you.’

#iago writes #fundy & wilbur #fundy & yogurt #wilbur & fundy & yogurt #not x reader #fundy #wilbur soot #yogurt the fox #dsmp wilbur #dsmp fundy #dsmp yogurt #mcyt wilbur #mcyt fundy #dsmpblr #mcytblr

[hathorneheiress]

Grayson Hawthorne sickfics pt2

Jameson's POV

I was almost there. Almost ready to beat Avery in the little bet we had going.

If I found the clue that was hiding in the walls first, I got to kiss her first. If she found it first, she got to kiss me first. It might seem petty to some, but it was enough for us.

I was in the secret passageway that led from my room to the kitchen when my phone buzzed. Assuming it was Avery I pulled it out. It wasn't, it was Nash.

Nash: Need you in Grayson's room right now.

That was odd.

Me: Why? What's wrong?

Nash: Gray has passed out and is very hot. Can't seem to revive him.

Me: Be right there!

I quickly went from one passageway to the next. We all knew Grayson was over working himself, but it had never gotten this bad. I rushed into the bedroom to find Nash bending over our brother's still form.

His body red yet he looked pale at the same time. Nash turned around, relief spreading on his face when he saw me.

"Oh, good. You're here."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Don't know. He wasn't looking good this morning. I asked if he was doing alright, but you know Gray, he won't tell you how he really feels."

I scoffed. None of us were good at it. Probably dew to a mother never being around, fathers that wanted nothing to do with us, and a grandfather who liked to play with our brains. We were all fundamentally screwed up.

"Anyways," Nash continued. "I found him passed out in his office. That was almost ten minutes ago and he still hasn't shone any signs of waking up."

I nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

"We need to get him out of this suit and properly into bed." Right now my brother was laying on top of the black, silk quilted coverlet.

With the two of us working together, we were able to strip him down and then get him under the coverlet. He was so hot, that the top sheet only covered him for modesty sake, but that was it. Anything else would have spiked the fever more.

For the next thirty minutes we went back and forth with cold washcloths, placing them over Grayson's burning body. A doctor had been called and we hoped he would get here soon.

Grays was still out, but as we neared the hour mark he finally began to stir.

I held my breath, hoping he would finally wake up. And he did. Light blue eyes fluttered open. Shock and confusion contorting his handsome features.

Blinking up at us, he asked. "What in the world happened?"

Part 3 will be along shortly!

#the brothers hawthorne #the inheritance games #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #sickfics

[diabolus1exmachina]

Spyker D12 Peking-to-Paris  

The notion of high performance SUVs is something we are all familiar with today. Just about everyone is building a premium high-riding car in a bid to cash-in on the booming fashion. However, long before the Bentley Bentayga, Rolls-Royce Cullinan, Lamborghini Urus and Ferrari Purosangue, there was the Spyker D12 Peking To Paris concept car. An innovative SUV that was too far ahead of its time.

Visually, the D12 incorporated much of the Spyker C8 sports car’s design. Its sleek shape featured very few creases and appeared to be rather aerodynamic for its size. This surpassingly elegant vehicle possesses a short rear overhang and a sloping roofline more akin to a sporting GT than a traditional SUV.

It looked the part, and its powerplant was to ensure that it had the performance to match. The intention was for the Volkswagen Group to supply a W12 engine capable of giving the D12 over 500-horsepower. This SUV’s projected 0-60mph time was 5 seconds — not bad for a 1850kg vehicle at all.

Opening the concept cars suicide doors revealed an exquisite cabin upholstered with quilted leather and brushed aluminum. A tall center console ran its length, dividing four individual sports seats. This beautifully intricate space was full of interesting aeronautical details that harked back to Spyker’s past as an aircraft manufacturer. The crowning glory of this opulent interior? A full length glass panoramic roof.

The D12 concept car got its name from a 1907 Spyker 14/18 PK that competed in the gruelling Peking To Paris endurance race. Frenchman M. Goddard piloted the car for six months and over 9300 miles to finish second overall. Quite the achievement for the time.

Sadly, the Spyker D12 never made production, even after a revival in 2008 as the V8 engined D8 concept car. While there were reports of some orders of the D12 being taken, it ultimately arrived a decade too early to capitalise on today’s fashion for sporting SUVs. Since then, Spyker has struggled financially, meaning that the D8 and D12 will likely remain somewhat forgotten show cars.

#Spyker D12 Peking-to-Paris #Bentley Bentayga #Rolls-Royce Cullinan #Lamborghini Urus #Ferrari Purosangue #Volkswagen

[madamhatter]

“Hey, Sophie? What do you think about baking?”

There is no subtle way to go about doing this. White Day chocolates, as he had explained, were a display of love. Platonic or otherwise. And though he oft’ tried to rationalize it, that all she had felt probably lingered somewhere between those things, he knew his ears were far too hot to think his feelings were merely friendly.

But he couldn’t just up and give her the chocolates. It was no different from taunting her with ideas of other worlds, that he... unproudly did a little too often. He knew her, grounded as she may be, to be a restless sort. Always needing something to do. Not so dissimilar to him. But what confined her to this ran much deeper than he could ever know.

Most he could do was lead her into the kitchen, show her a recipe, and cast his gaze to the floor when blurting out, “Can... you help me with these?” And the fine print would indicate it. White Day Chocolate. 

Well it’s like Valentine’s day. But... where I come from, it’s on two days, a month apart. White Day is when the guys usually give something. Or whatever.

Or whatever. And now he’s standing in her kitchen asking her to help him make some, or whatever.  “I want to make some with you.” 

Because they’re for you! Say it, you fool!!!

[ White Day ask :) ]

The call of spring rings. From their slumber, the once-dormant tulips, daffodils, and a myriad of wildflowers sprout from the soil, dappling the Folding Valley. As the sun's warmth reaches down and drapes across the peaks, it revives their once-chilled petals and stems, casting a golden wash over the greening canvas of Ingary's most northern landscape.  

On the outskirts of Market Chipping, lingering snow receding reveals damp and fertile soil, signaling the start of the tilling seasons. Eager farmers, readied with their tools and accompanied by sturdy oxen, begin preparations, envisioning the bountiful harvest ahead. With barn doors flung open, livestock revels in their verdant pastures, basking underneath the sun without worrying about the frost threatening their hooves, webbed feet, or paws.

Market Chipping, too, blossomed in the new season. The once-empty farmer's market was slowly repopulating, with regular faces reopening their stalls. Opened windows invite the fresh spring breeze to waft in, carrying the blooming flowers from the valley. Children, no longer burdened by heavy garments, dash through the streets, their laughter and energy contrasting the measured and scheduled paces of the adults around them. The road was loud with life: some townsfolk leisurely enjoying their day, others bustled to their places of work, and still more jogging to their next endeavor. The diligent carries tools -- paintbrushes, buckets, and the like. For this season, spring cleaning also includes spring refreshing! Storefronts receive fresh coats of paint, and window boxes check and replace the old soil and plants with new colorful blossoms. 

In a home tucked away in Market Chipping, the Hatter's cramped house is also shedding its winter coat. The hearth in the entrance room of the home, burning brightly throughout the earlier months with demands of logs, now only has a milder glow, quieter and less demanding. The heavy drapes were pulled back, streaks of once-rare sunlight pooling into the abode's bedrooms, kitchen, and living space. Even on the small round table that makes up the dining space, freshly picked daffodils are in vases, pale yellow petals swaying ever-so-slightly from a cracked window in the kitchen, the one small window above the sink that overlooks the Hatter's small patio. 

Sophie Hatter, the eldest daughter, is folding a large, heavy quilt that warmed the foyer's couch throughout long and quiet winter nights. When Martha and Lettie were much younger, Sophie, as the eldest sister, took to her sewing needles and worked throughout the rest of the seasons to prepare for the girls shivering and crawling into her bed to get through the frigid nights. As the two got older, the quilt was in the supply closet or folded over the couch's back-support cushions.

Every square of the quilt holds a different story, from a first-failed snowflake, pine trees, frosty leaves, and several simple solid colors, all of which have faded with time. Methodically, Sophie's hands smooth out each section, her index finger tracing the pattern, drawing her lips into her mouth. 

How much time has passed...

"Thank you for your services," Sophie sighs with a soft smile. She folds the last corner of the quilt and holds it over her forearm. 

A gentle voice, filled with hesitation, meets Sophie's ears. Typically, personal inquiries would be met with a slight frown and some reticence on her part. However, today, the pervasive nostalgia averts that reaction.

Riku, the man who hailed and traveled from the stars and from a place she could only dream of visiting, glances towards her. His eyes dart away when he realizes her undivided attention is on him. 

"Ah.." Sophie muses. Inspecting the quilt, she pinches one corner and, with delicate motion, rids of any wrinkles with a quick wrist flick. "Baking is a pastime I've enjoyed since childhood. However," she chuckles softly, "you might be asking the wrong Hatter."

"You might have seen her in Cersari's anytime you've been in town, Mister Riku.--" Speaking obliquely, the eldest sister is reminded of her younger sister's compromising situation. The baking genius is now at the bakery, but she was not assigned to take an apprenticeship there! 

Ah, the convoluted tale of Martha and Lettie switching places remains a secret. Only Sophie is aware of this circumstance and was sworn to secrecy. 

Even Mother has yet to take notice. In complete oblivious bliss. However, when has she seen what her daughters wanted? When has she actually noticed them..? 

"Although," she continues, a warmer genuine smile emerging, her eyes squinting. "Take that not as an indication that I've ceased baking. Any moment I can, I will esteem my siblings." 

As Riku shifts, moving further into the house, Sophie's attention ricochets to him. Setting the quilt aside, she whispers, "Mister Riku," before pursuing after him. 

A man of few words and many actions, his movement was nothing to be ignored! They both quietly weave through and enter the kitchen. 

"If you are parched, you could simply ask for a drink," Sophie remarks with a raised eyebrow. With her hands resting on her hips, she observes Riku rummaging through his pockets.

He carefully flattens the crumpled paper with his black-gloved hands before extending it towards her. Avoiding her gaze, he silently offers it for her perusal. Sophie gently takes a corner, steadying the paper as she scans the written words. 

"White Day," the name lingers on her lips, query implied, as her eyes heavy on the paper. A recent memory surfaces: the woman born far from the ocean yet seemingly carries sea salt in her spirit; the rare individual capable of brightening the often solemn countenance of the key bearer; the one back in Riku's home. 

"Is that what it is?" She murmurs. "On Valentine's Day, one presents something to their beloved. If these days are interconnected, is White Day a kind of 'reciprocating or response day for men who received something on Valentine's Day?" She blinks. "Assuming that you specify 'guys,' as you put it, giving something on this day means that women initiate the gesture on Valentine's Day." 

An uncharacteristically loud inhale from the nostrils comes from Sophie upon hearing Riku's simple request. It felt as 'simple' as turning felt back into its original wool form. It is as straightforward as crafting a tapestry without the aid of a loom. Or as effortless as hand-spinning raw cotton straight from the plant.

How would she prevail in hiding the sharp prickling in her chest? It burns like vile, burning the insides of her throat. She gazes around the vacant kitchen, seeking a semblance of grounding. The burgeoning dread, she swallows it back; it is one incomprehensible from the point of origin, but all at the same time, it feels too intimate.

"Of course, Mister Riku," each word is drawn out. When Sophie's eyes find his cerulean eyes, they are the deepest sea she has ever seen. Sophie's gaze returns to the cerulean eyes, the deepest sea she has ever seen. Perhaps that was the cruel irony: a girl from the Folding Valley, so removed from the sea, could never make it there. Too far, never meant to be.

"I would do anything for you," her voice wavers, barely above a whisper. Her breath hitches, and she quickly adds to recover: "To help you bake the chocolates!" 

Spinning on her heels, she hurriedly rifles through drawers for an apron. "After all, it would be unwise to leave things unanswered, especially with how much you must've received as someone of your...popularity." Yet, beneath her words, there remains that stinging in her throat. A shade of unmistakable green.

#litoredeem #( checkbooks inquiries and much ; answered asks ) #( riku && sophie tag ) #[ sorry. my inner riku came out in which i suddenly disappear and reappear to elicit strong emotions. ] #[ (read: i elicit strong emotions from myself writing this and the mixed signals between them) ]

[skywarpie]

New Blood 

Ch. 2

AO3 link , ch 1

Rating: mature for eventual violence and language

Medieval/Renaissance AU because I can. Fight me.

Morning comes far quicker than he would have liked it to. If it were up to him the sun would never rise on this day. Then he couldn’t let everyone down by being a failure or by — stop it. He shakes his head as he sits up in bed. Thinking like that is only going to make things worse. Copia knows he should take his own advice, but that’s easier said than done.

Copia rubs at his eyes. His hip makes an uncomfortably loud pop when he shifts slightly. He hisses, rubbing at the offending appendage. Lovely. Another thing to add to this horrible day.

It takes a great deal of effort, but he finally drags himself from the warmth of his heavily quilted bed. As soon as his feet plant themselves on the stone floor, a sharp pain runs up both legs. He’s never been overly fond of the cold. It tends to make his condition worse. Wintery stone floors only add to this.

He fumbles for a moment as he grabs his cane from against the nightstand and uses it to pull himself up so that he’s finally standing. His free hand raises in the air as he stretches. It’s meant to be a relaxing gesture but it has the opposite effect. A shape pain shoots down his spine, causing him to inhale sharply and nearly double over. Please, not today. Please. 

It takes a while, but eventually his morning routine is complete and he’s dressed in his red cassock and settled on the small bench in front of the vanity. He runs a comb through his hair to pull it back the way he likes. He settles for running two fingers across his pencil thin mustache. It’s an effort to smooth down any wayward hairs, but in truth the hair isn’t even thick enough to have that problem. 

Lastly, he leans forward to apply the black paint around his eyes. It makes his white eye pop, something he thinks looks rather good on him. He’ll never have papal paint, so this is his settling for the closest possible. Once he’s finished he wipes away any lines that seem out of place, not wanting it to smear. Good enough. It’s not, not really. Nothing will ever be good enough for his father, but Copia can still hold out hope each morning that maybe, just maybe, his attitude may change for the better. But it never does.

Copia sighs as he fastens his pellegrina across his shoulders. He stalls for a moment as he considers picking his biretta up but decides better of it. He settles for the red saturno hat that matches his cassock, one of his old rosaries with the grucifix on it decorating the top. He doesn’t plan on going to breakfast. It’s bad enough he’ll have to face everyone later today. Why should he have to put himself through that twice. No, instead he decides he’ll take a nice long walk in the gardens to get some fresh air. His chosen hat will protect his face better from the sun far better than his biretta. 

He gives himself a once over once more in one of the floor length mirrors that decorates his simple rooms. Good enough. The same hip as earlier lets its agitation be known as it sends another sharp pain through him. Maybe a short walk then. That’ll work better. 

—---- 

Copia likes taking walks alone through the gardens early in the morning. It helps relax him. He doesn’t know what any of them are. Primo was the one responsible for planting and tending to them. Since he’s left they’ve gone down hill. Copia tried once or twice to save a few but all he succeeded in was killing them. He hasn’t tried gardening since. Occasionally a ghoul or two is seen out and about doing Satan knows what out here. He likes to think that they’re reviving the once lush greenery, but he knows they aren’t. They’re more than likely just making it look presentable so Nihil doesn’t lose his head when he has an important visitor. Copia scoffs at that. The only important person in Nihil’s life is Nihil. 

Someone clears their throat behind him. 

Copia nearly screams as he’s startled from his thoughts. He’s still clutching his chest with one hand and gripping his cane with the other when he turns around. He immediately calms. “Aether.” It’s followed by a look of annoyance. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

The ghoul lets out a deep chuckle as he has the audacity to look sorry. His tail moving to lightly wrap around one of Copia’s ankles. “I thought you heard me.”

The man sighs, feeling like his chest is still constricting him. “I did not.” 

“Tough morning?”

Copia opens his mouth but thinks better of it, shutting it and chewing the inside of his cheek for a second. 

“Ahhh,” Aether’s smooth voice cuts through the air. “Nerves, then?” A brow he raises as if saying tell me I’m wrong?

He wants to argue that no, actually he’s just extremely sleepy. He got no sleep last night and — and that would only prove the ghoul’s point. Instead he sighs and shrinks in on himself. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Aether’s face contorts into confusion. “Why wouldn’t you be able to? You’re the best at all of your other studies so far.”

“Yes but —” but what? I can’t let my family down anymore than my health has already done so? I need Nihil to be proud of me? That last one makes him feel nauseous and Copia files it away in his brain for things to sort through later. “What if I mess up?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. You’ll do fine.” It’s said so matter of factly that Copia can’t even bring himself to be irritated. Aether always believes in him, why, Copia doesn’t know. He’s been a disappointment to pretty much everyone in his life up until this point. Maybe it says something about his character if a ghoul is saying this? It can’t be anything good.

“You okay?” The ghoul’s voice is soft as he cranes his neck to get a better look at the man’s face.

“Si, sono buono.” He’s really not, but Aether doesn’t need to know that. 

“Come on, several of the sisters just made some fresh tarts.” He looks down at Copia. “I know how you love those. Plus, judging by your appearance you haven’t eaten this morning. We should fix that.”

Copia sighs. “Fine. I do like a good tart.” 

—-

“Saltarian, it’s so good to see you.” Imperator smiles as the man places a chaste kiss atop her hand. 

“I would have to think a ritual as important as this one would take place without me.” He chuckles as he brings his arm to fold behind himself. “Especially with it being your boy.” The emphasis isn’t lost on Nihil who stands just to the side. 

“Well, I would hate to keep the both of you.” She smiles at Saltarian and shoots a look at Nihil over her shoulder. “If you need me, I will be finishing the preparations for tonight.” She offers a small curtsy to Saltarian as she exits. 

Imperator can already hear Nihil’s sorry excuse for conversation. Thankfully it’s shut out as she rounds the corner and makes her way to the great hall they use for celebrations. And this is a celebration. Whether her husband wants to acknowledge that or not. 

Several ghouls cease their scurrying about as they spot her, stopping to bow. “Lady Imperator, it’s nice to see you.” They’re dismissed with a wave of her hand. They waste no time in rushing away.

She scrunches her nose as she examines the decorative room. It’s nice, really. The ghouls did an okay job…but it doesn’t seem fitting enough. It should be more grand. Copia is her only child to actually make it to adulthood, infancy too if you really want to go into details. She has no other children and she’ll never have anymore. This isn’t just a celebration of his newfound title, but also one to essentially say fuck you, I made it, to a world that had fought tooth and nail to try to take him from her. 

“You.” She points at a ghoul. 

“Y-yes ma'am?” 

“This is all the seating?” Her voice holds an edge. The table is massive, enough to set nearly fifty people and yet there are only a handful of seating arrangements.

“Uh – yes.”

She grits her teeth. “I recall sending out an invite to many more than these.”

Now the ghoul looks absolutely horrified. Their eyes dart around nervously to look anywhere but at her. “It’s – it’s all the arrangements we were given from Nihil.”

“Nihil!?” The ghoul cowers as she explodes. “Last I checked I was the one in charge of this event, not my husband.” She hisses like the word burns her to say it. 

“I-I’m s-sorry. We – we –”

“Get out of my sight.” The ghoul remains planted where they are until she yells. “Now!” They squeak and hurry off as far away as possible from her.

Imperator rubs her temples. This is not going how it was supposed to. There’s hardly any guests. It was supposed to be an elaborate party but instead her husband seems to have turned it into a small family gathering, plus Saltarian. 

She stills herself with a deep breath. Fine. Whatever. She can still work with this, as long as all of the food is prepared and ready when the time comes, then she can make it seem like this was the original plan. 

—---

“What!?” Copia practically chokes on his mouthful of tart, shooting a glare at Aether. “You knew these were for tonight!?” 

“Theoretically I want to say yes, but no one ever confirmed it.” Aether shrugs and Copia looks from him to the kitchen ghoul who informs them of their mistake in horror. 

He tosses the remaining few bites back onto the plate and stares at them with wide eyes. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why else would they have made them? 

“She’s going to kill me. Do you understand that, theoretically?” He shouldn’t be as upset with Aether as he is. Copia knows he’s overreacting, but he can’t help but feel that this is another notch on his today is fucked belt.

Finally having had enough, the kitchen ghoul rolls her eyes and snatches the plate that has the remaining pastries on it. They waste no time in making their exit. 

Copia feels like throwing up. He wants to yell and scream at Aether more but he’s interrupted by another ghoul. 

“Your mother is in the dining hall looking for you.” They disappear once more around the corner.

Copia looks to Aether horrified. “I should probably finish my chores.” He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good luck.” And quickly makes his own leave. Copia is left there fuming silently.

Whatever, he’ll just deal with that later. He sighs and grabs his hat from the counter as he slowly makes his way into the dining hall which suddenly feels like his tomb. 

“Ah, there you are!” Imperator meets him halfway in the large room. “There has been a slight change in plans, it would seem.”

Copia simply nods, waiting for whatever this new bomb that’s about to be dropped on him will create. 

“It seems that we have less than half of the originally expected guests.” 

That’s it? That’s all she’s upset about? Copia feels like laughing hysterically. “That’s okay.” Honestly it’s a relief. Copia isn’t the best when it comes to large crowds of people. They make him uncomfortable, especially when their focus is on him. 

“Are you sure?” Her brow is furrowed as she looks up at him. 

“Si. It’s okay.” 

Imperator smiles sadly. “Okay.” There’s a split second of silence between them before she starts in again. “Is that crumbs in your hair?”

His eyes widen as he shakes his head frantically. She grabs his face to pull him closer for inspection when a ghoul chimes in.

“Ma’m, it appears the tarts that were made are no longer available.”

Copia makes to bolt but Imperator’s tight grasp on his chin stops him. His wild frantic eyes meet her’s as she smiles mockingly, never once looking away from him. “I suppose we won’t be having tarts either.”

#the band ghost #skywarpie writes #i did a thing #okay to reblog i guess #ghost bc #ghost band #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #sister imperator #papa nihil #mr saltarian #nameless ghouls