#Shop Quilts & Comforters

[bitchfitch]

i just got done with my third chiro appointment, and like. I've noticed a significant improvement in terms of how much pain I'm in but I'm also noticing i can't like. stay sitting up. I can sit, which isn't always the case, but the muscles in my back are so loosey goosey/ not responding/ spasming that I keep curling forward until my head is almost pressed to the bed in front of me while I'm sitting cross legged. Don't know what that's about but it's affecting productivity something awful.

[shavacreationswitzerland]

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Shava Summer Cotton Quilts “Razai”

[tojisun]

sun!! i hope you’re doing well sweetheart <3

i’m on my period and feeling miserable :( i’m just imagining biker!simon and his big warm hands massaging my lower back and being my personal heating pad

i feel like he’d be so doting and sweet…and i just know his cuddles are IMMACULATE

my goodness my beloved im sorry for how late my reply to this is!! i hope ur feeling a whole lot better today :(( and that u were able to rest well hhhhh

no ur right!!! big man like simon gives out good hugs!! just, warm and comforting over all <33 // biker!simon mlist

simon leaves as soon as he can, your message still bright in his mind – im dying lol.

“Not on my watch,” is what simon replied, trying to be playful if only to distract you from your pain.

he says his goodbyes to his friends, waves at john who tells him he’ll close up the shop and that simon doesn’t have to worry about it, before walking towards the parking lot. he snags his helmet, snaps it on, and hefts himself on top of his bike.

he traces the initials engraved on his gloves before bringing up his hand to the mouth of his helmet and presses it in lieu of a kiss. then he’s off, the purr of his engine smooth as he whips against the wind.

simon’s left you on his bed today, bundled up in his sweater and underneath the blankets. you’ve been teary-eyed as you bid him goodbye, trying to assure him that your period’s not kicking your ass.

“just go, si,” you said, huffing when simon continued to stand by the edge of the bed, hesitating.

“i don’t wanna leave you when y’r like this, sweetheart,” he replied, bending down just enough to cup your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your eye.

“you can’t just skip work, y’know?”

“if it’s for you, i can.”

it wasn’t a lie – you two knew this – but you insisted, giggling, and told him to just remember to bring snacks when he returns home. he kissed you goodbye and drove off.

simon didn’t forget his promise, of course. his bag’s full of chocolates and cookies and a pack of electrolyte drinks. he knew the medicine cabinet was stocked but simon got extra pain medications – for cramping and nausea – in case you needed more.

johnny had seen simon’s grocery bag and asked that simon tell you that johnny’s wishing you to get well soon. then, kyle and john overheard and they gave simon the extra ladyfingers stored in the break room.

simon parks his bike and almost stumbles on his feet when he lurched out of his bike. he speeds through the stairs, thundering footsteps echoing, before tearing through the fire escape door.

he fumbles for his keys, steps into his apartment, and has just enough coherence to remember to toe his shoes off, place his helmet on the counter, snag his gloves off, and wash his hands. then, simon’s back in his room. back where you are.

you’re still buried underneath his quilt, curled into yourself. simon would have cooed at how little space you are taking up on his bed but he hears you whine, exhausted face peeking out of the quilt, before weary eyes meet his own.

“i’m home, sweetheart,” he breathes out, watching as your face breaks out into a smile.

“hey there, baby,” you reply, shuffling until he sees you lift a corner of the sheets for him to crawl in.

simon doesn’t even care that he’s still in his work clothes, not when your pretty eyes are pleading him to slip in and finally cuddle with you. so he drops his bag and takes his jacket off, before slipping underneath the quilt and sliding beside you.

you’re blinking up at him as he settles in, your warm palms reaching up to caress his cool face. he hears the faint hum that rumbles from your throat and simon huffs a fond laugh at the small smile tickling your lips.

“how do you want me, love?” he asks, his own hands claiming their rightful place by your waist. he rubs at your sides the way he knows you want – smooth glides with just enough pressure, grounding you into him.

“spoonin’,” you whisper, sniffing, before turning away from him with your mind made up.

simon laughs, pressing the quiet puffs of it on the back of your head as you shimmy towards him, pressing your back to his chest, before falling putty with a quiet sigh. he loops his arm around your waist, the heavy weight of his palm falling just underneath your belly.

“lift y’r head up a bit,” simon murmurs, humming when he slots his other arm under your head for you to use as a pillow. “good girl,” he murmurs as you fall back into him.

simon fixes the sheets as you shuffle closer again, nuzzling your face onto his arm with a pleased grumble, and he barks a laugh at your sudden sneeze.

“shit, sorry,” you croak out, hiding your face behind your palms.

simon laughs. “don’t be, sweetheart.” he kisses the back of your head again. “feelin’ better?”

“a bit,” you reply, and simon trembles when he feels your fingers glide along his arm. “now that you’re here.”

jesus. you sure know how to make him ache with the weight of his love, huh sweetheart?

IT GOT TOO LONG IM SORRY!! but yea :(( i hope u are feeling better luv <333

[taylorswiftstyle]

Chiefs vs Buccaneers | Kansas City, MO | November 4, 2024

Vintage ‘Kansas City Leather Jacket’ - no longer available Louis Vuitton ‘Louise PM Earrings’ - $575.00 Chanel 'Quilted Cutout Plate Necklace' - $4,475.00 Retrouvai 'Magna Ring' - $5,855.00 Louis Vuitton ‘Ombre Blossom Open Ring’ - $3,150.00 The Row 'Vintage Leather Belt' - $630.00 AGOLDE 'Dee High Rise Shorts' - $150.00 Dior 'Saddle Bag' - $5,500.00

Let's firstly address the 'debutation' in the room with us. The combination of a black colour palette rendered in a western silhouette or a 'horse girl' nod courtesy of her boots and bag feels as comedically obvious as mashing up "Our Song" with "Call It What You Want" on the Eras Tour stage. I like to imagine that she's smiling about the tease on the inside.

Here, Taylor takes a western style boot for a spin in her Chiefs ‘fit for the day, paired with another Horse Girl chic accessory - a new matte black version of the gold hardware Dior ‘Saddle’ bag she carried from an outing in NYC last month. I personally love both!

When Taylor first made waves at Arrowhead Stadium last fall she spent her first season as a sports spectator developing a recognizable game day uniform. Like any uniform, it was one that centered on crafting style pillars that were identifiable, easily repeatable, and that underscored her overall brand as a relatable public figure while also feeling distinctly separate enough from her other style ‘genres’. This approach is not easy to pull off. It’s intentional and carefully thought out! As all good styling is. But it’s one she exceled at.

To my eye, her three pillars of choice were sentimental accessories, women/locally-owned businesses, and vintage.

Pulling on sentimental accessories like ’87’ rings or a gifted ‘TNT’ bracelet anchored the reason why she was there (to play a loving, supportive role). Highlighting local and woman-owned businesses diffused her gigantic spotlight onto deserving vendors that could use a lift. Lastly, incorporating vintage Chiefs merchandise allowed her to be a loud and proud fan without funnelling funds into bankable NFL wares and gives a +1 to the trend of shopping sustainably by giving love to pieces that already exist in the world.

Here, we see that third pillar of vintage on display in a very covetable oversized jacket. Assessing things on the surface, I think this is one of her best NFL showings. The slouchy jacket looks cohesive with her all black ensemble but the styling with more streamlined pieces proportionally balances out the jacket’s volume. The red lip pulls on the Chiefs colours in the paneling and keeps the eye moving consistently throughout the outfit. Meanwhile the belt ties into both the vintage element of her jacket and the black/gold elements of the rest of her outfit by a more ‘quiet luxury’ brand that she’s worn many times and is thus a recognized, existing designer in her fashion directory. Well played accessorizing!

In the last year or so, Taylor’s approach to jewelry has been: “Yes and”. Since she added three piercings to her lobes in the summer of 2023, she’s been comfortable opting for an earring stack and experimenting with upper cartilage cuffs, multiple piercing threaders, and more. That experimentation has also extended to necklace stacks and “fun” pieces like hand jewelry and bodychains.

Even more recently, her jewelry approach has favoured the big, the statement, and the noticeably monogrammed. Take her repeat LV monogram earrings which we saw at the US Open in September. They’re paired for a double down luxury moment with a statement Chanel necklace.

One of Taylor’s key brand signatures has always been her relatability. Whether that be in her emotionally resonant lyrics or in her easily coppable style. Stylishly, she’s executed this most often through her clothes in the form of the fashionable high/low (pairing high end designer pieces with more ‘accessible’ high street options from lower priced brands). But as of late we’ve seen an uptick in layered luxe. That is, monogrammed designer on designer looks.

Some might find it ostentatious, perhaps even tacky. Particularly given the rise of the “quiet luxury” trend which prizes a “demure” take on spendy fashion. Looks that revel unassumingly in expensive taste. In this moment, to me the logo-mania evokes her increasing confidence and ease in leaning in to bigger, bolder, luxe fashion. And perhaps there’s also something there in confidently and loudly reclaiming your identity with fabulously obvious “self named” pieces.

However! I know holistically the increase of monogrammed luxury during this season of NFL styling has given many pause. Does a heavy dose of monogrammed luxury brands paired with a sustainable vintage piece provide balance … or does it cancel the other out?* I’m curious to hear your thoughts!

Photo by Jamie Squire via Getty Images

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

Mooooo ! I love you so much bby 💕 my I request one with Alfie with the touch starved prompts “you never have to earn my affection-not now, not ever” and “I’m never more at peace than when I’m in yours arms”? Thank you lovely❤️❤️

My baby girl!!!!!!! Ugh thank you so much for sending this in. Did my heart ache writing this? Yes. Did my stomach hurt? Also yes. Am I sorry for it? NO. WE DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR EMO HOURS IN THIS HOUSE. Hehehe Anyway I love ya so much I hope you enjoyyyyyy.

100 Follower Celebration: Your Love is Enough

Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

There were many perks that came with being Alfie's woman. While there was certainly a good deal of danger lurking around, there was an undeniable air of safety you had due to all the eyes watching. You got access to all the hot goings on around the city. You lived comfortably. And above all, you got to love Alfie Solomons fully and purely and unabashed. There was only one downside really... the talk.

It was no secret that you were significantly younger than Alfie. It was something you and Alfie never shied away from and didn't feel a need to. Regardless of any age difference, you and Alfie understood each other on a cosmic level, a way no one else could. You loved him with your whole heart and soul and Alfie would burn down the world if you asked him to. You were one. And anyone who truly knew you and Alfie knew that this was true love. That this was the type of love and devotion that epics were written about and empires crumbled over. But there were always going to be people who didn't know. Always going to be people who didn't understand.

You were perusing fabric patterns in the shop down the street one early afternoon, looking for the final pattern to add to a quilt you were making for Ollie's soon to be born first child. You delicately touched the cotton blends along an aisle, imagining how it would look along the squares you had already picked, taking mental note as to what was available.

"I just cannot imagine what he sees in her. I mean... she is a child isn't she?"

Your ears perked up to the tone. It was Mrs. Vorsed from down the corner, the one you waved to every morning without even a smile in return. Another voice responded, "You know how men are. They just want a little toy to play house with until they find a wife."

Who on earth could they be talking about?

"Mr. Solomons needs a real woman in his home. My Portia knows what it means to be a lady of the house, and knows her place. I mean that girl he is shacked up with... I can hear her shouts and laughter from down the street! What does she know about keeping a home, much less keeping a man?"

A snicker erupts, "Well I'm sure she won't last long. He'll tire of her eventually when he realizes what he truly needs. Then Portia can swoop right in!"

The cackles fade away with the sharp chops of heavy footed steps. Despite your efforts, the knot in your throat never went down. You lungs refused to take in breath as the words spun in your mind. How could they say those things so confidently? They didn't even know you. They never even stepped foot into the house, how could they know how you keep it? Alfie never said more than a good morning to Mrs. Vorsed. How could they know anything about you or Alfie? Yet their words kept spinning and spooling around in your mind. What if... what if they were right?? What if people saw something that you couldn't see? What if you had deluded yourself into thinking that Alfie was truly happy and in love with you? What if he was unhappy but didn't want to tell you out of duty. It all became too much in your chest, and you left the store without your fabric, but the weight of the world on your chest.

That evening Alfie could not wait to get home to you. Every evening Alfie nearly buzzed at the prospect of coming home to see your face again, and wrap himself around you, getting as close as possible. You made his day better. You made his life brighter and joyful and meaningful. It made all the business and badness worth it. Stepping through the threshold with a press to the mezuzah, Alfie calls out, "Sweet girl! I'm home! You in the kitchen darling?"

He hears you call back and smiles wide, stomach growling hungry for supper and you. Taking off his coat and hat he ambles into the kitchen, watching you stir something magical in the massive soup pot. "My dove ,my angel, my joy, what are you doing? Making food for the Royal Navy are we?"

You turn to him, and he can clearly see that something is wrong. Your lips are quivering and poorly attempting to portray a smile, and your eyes are glassy and red rimmed. He feels a stab in his chest, "Now wait a minute treacle... what's got you crying?"

You wiped your cheek and turned away, "I'm not crying."

With a scoff he grabs your chin gently, turning you to face him, "I thought we didn't lie to each other my sweet. Especially since you're the worst liar since the Garden of Eden. Why are you crying? Come on now confess."

You shrugged as Alfie's hands moved up and down your arms, "It's nothing. Stupid really I shouldn't be crying."

"Nah nah. It ain't stupid if it's got my sweet girl crying like that. Out with it."

The tears kept falling, though you tried to keep an even tone, "I just... I heard some women talking. Mrs. Vorsed and another lady."

Alfie rolled his eyes, "Always a bad sign. C'mon what else."

You sniffled, "And... well... they said that... I wasn't good enough for you. That I didn't know how to be a good woman to you. And that you would be better off with someone else. That you would soon grow tired of me. That I'm not deserving of you, and Portia Vorsed would be a better match for you."

The tears started coming harder, and you couldn't help the shaking of your body. Alfie's stomach dropped, and rage replaced it. Alfie shook your shoulders a bit in his passion, "What the fuck is wrong with them? Treacle, Mrs. Vorsed is the worst gossip in Camden, and doesn't know anything about anything. She hasn't got anything better to do but talk absolute shit. Portia, right? She is the silliest woman in town, she can't even do basic arithmetic because she's too busy being an idiot. I mean fuck me treacle I can barely say good morning to Mrs. Vorsed without getting proper fucking agitated!"

Alfie kissed your forehead and brought you to his chest, "YOU are the one for me. I don't give a shit what Mrs. Vorsed or what any other decrepit woman or idiot man thinks. You are my life. You are my stars and my moon and my sun alright? You don't have to be 'good enough' for me. Fuck you just are. You never have to earn my love. You've always had it. Even before I knew you my old and brittle heart was yours. You got that?"

You nodded, the tears pooling in his shirt. Alfie pulled you away from him to look into your eyes. "And treacle I don't even think Mrs. Vorsed can see more than a meter in front of her so she probably has no clue who she is talking about."

You laughed despite the tears and Alfie grinned. All he wanted to do every day was to make you smile. He was convinced that was what he was put on this earth to do. You put your hand to his face, feeling him lean into the warmth of your palm. "I just want to love you and care for you like you do me. I just worry that I don't do enough sometimes."

He grabbed your hand, kissing your fingertips, "Ah my sweet. I'm never more at peace than when I'm in your arms. I'm never more at home than when you're next to me. The whole business could go to shit and I'd still be the richest man in the world because I have the greatest treasure in you. And I mean that my love. You believe your old man right?"

You nod. The lump in your throat finally dissapated and the weight melted away. There was truly no love like Alfie's and yours. People could talk all they want. People could make any assumptions they wanted. That didn't change what was true. And what was true was that you and Alfie belonged to each other and would for all of eternity.

[specialagentlokitty]

Elijah x reader - never leave your side

You defo knew this was coming😂 can i request an Elijah Mikaelson x reader where they're in a relationship and the reader has very bad anxiety and maybe she has a panic attack and tries to hide it from Elijah but him being a beautiful vanpire😍 just knows straight away, thanksss - Anon💜

Wherever you were, Elijah was never that far away from you, everybody knew that.

You were like a package deal, you were always together.

Not that the pair of you didn’t trust one another, but given his history and past, he worried about you, and given your preference to be near him for comfort, he was always happy to go with you anywhere.

So, that made today no different, you didn’t want to go outside, preferring to stay in the comfort of your own home, Elijah had no objection to that.

He came over with some shopping you needed, downstairs in the kitchen putting it all away while you were sat upstairs still in bed.

You were trying to hide the fact that you were in the middle of a panic attack.

You were sat under your quilt, so you couldn’t see the door, but you did notice someone sit behind you, and the quilt was lifted up.

Elijah sat behind you, wrapping his arms around you tightly, covering you back up with the quilt.

“I’m here darling..”

He rested his chin on your head, running a hand up and down your arm.

“You’re okay… it’s okay…”

Elijah whispered comforting words to you, keeping you in his grasp.

He knew how to calm you down, and he knew all the signs for when you were having a panic attack or when you were going to have one.

He knew your signs.

He knew you.

It’s why he never left your side.

He knew just holding you, reminding you that he was there, that you were okay and you were safe, was a good way to calm you down.

It didn’t fully work, but he could only do so much, the rest was up to you.

Kissing your head again, Elijah leant back, letting you rest your back on his chest, you hand tightly gripping his arm.

He was sure that if he was human it would’ve hurt like hell, but thankfully for him, he couldn’t feel that pain, so he let you grip his arm as tightly as you wanted.

When you didn’t show any signs of calming, he decided to try his next plan.

He began to hum a gentle tune, the tune to the song he always hummed to you when you were upset or stressed.

He hummed it over and over and over again until finally you calmed down, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I’ve got you darling..”

He went to move the quilt, and you looked up at him.

“Not yet…”

“Alright, we can stay like this for however long you need.”

You nodded, closing your eyes, and he smiled softly at you.

“I got everything you needed, as well as some of that chocolate you enjoy so much.”

You nodded again.

“I was also thinking, perhaps you would like go for a walk this evening, when it’s quiet of course, we can go to the lake as sit there a while, would you like that?”

You rolled on to your side, holding his hand in yours.

“Yeah..”

“Then it shall happen.”

Elijah wrapped his other hand over you, laying down so you were laid on him, and he let you bury your head under his chin.

He laid there while you slept, moving the quilt so it was around your shoulders instead, but he didn’t move.

He simply laid there, reading the book from your nightstand, everytime you stirred he would carefully watch you until you went quiet again.

He would never leave you alone, especially not when you needed him

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Commission Menu!

I've removed the "Pay What You Want" commission option, though you can pay more than my asking price on any of the commissions. The commission menu itself has been increased though! I had originally intended to open commissions in September, but emergencies happened, forcing me to open them early.

On the menu are:

A set of four quilted magnets or decorative pins.

A set of four coasters, with several options for more coasters as well as insulated batting to make them into hot pads/pot holders.

A single mug rug, with insulated batting as an option. For my shop, I use insulated batting for the mug rugs. For commissioned pieces, it's two layers of cotton batting or an extra $5 for insulated batting.

Due to popular demand, a single serving dining set. This is for a single placemat and matching coaster.

A four piece placemat set. If you would like me to make more placemats for a set, please contact me about this.

A single mini quilt. These range from 18x18 inches to 25x25 inches. They're excellent wall and table decorations!

A single table runner. I'm rather fond of these because of how flexible they are with regards to use. How so? Hang them on a wall, drape over the back of a couch, lay across a car seat, use it on an altar or shrine, etc.

A pine tree wallhanging. These are an excellent alternative to a Yuletide tree. They're hung on a wall and you can decorate it with your favorite pins or buttons. If you would like some decorative pins, I can make those (see the first item on this list). No trees will be cut down, cats won't be climbing up it nor break ornaments, it takes just a couple minutes to set up or take down. Storage is also very easy! Oh, and it can be made with a wide range of colors.

A rag quilt. I have different size options available! These are made using a quilt-as-you-go technique and are very quickly made. Oh, and they're EXTREMELY warm! My house gets very chilly in winter, and the rag quilt I've made for myself works like magic.

Just the quilt top. This is available in several sizes, the largest being twin. This is for just the quilt top. You will need to purchase backing, batting, and either do the quilting yourself or hire someone else. You will also receive all fabric scraps left after the sewing is done.

Please read over the details and don't be afraid to ask questions. If you're a monthly supporter, you will automatically receive a 15% discount, but you have the option to pay more than my asking price should you decide you don't want to use the discount.

Please reblog! It's the only way other people will see this post. Liking this is only a bookmark for you. Remember, Tumblr is a blogging site with social features; it's not a social media site. You are, however, welcome to share this post on any social media site you use.

Remember: commissioning me, purchasing anything from my shop, or donating to my goal will earn you an entry into winning a free quilt when said goal is reached.

Commissions close November 1st.

After November 1st, I'll be focusing on making a stack of quick and easy quilt tops to practice free motion quilting. Those quilts will be sold at a steep discount. Once I'm comfortable with FMQ, I'll be making larger quilts again, and these will be listed in the shop.

At some point, I'll take a break. Financially speaking, that's not really an option unless we pay off the last vet bill and the water heater installation. If those goals are met, then yes, I'll take a long overdue and well-earned break.

If you're willing to give me full artistic license and the only input you give is choosing the size range from the commission menu, use GOHOGWILD for a 15% discount. Please know there's a 90% chance it will be a Halloween quilt. Halloween is my favorite month, and celebrating it with quilts is always a pleasure. You are not required to use the coupon code, and there's the option to pay more than my asking price. I just really want to make some Halloween quilts.

Here are samples of my work, some of which you can purchase from my shop here.

[purplerabbite]

i know capitalism is trying to suck every last bit of money out of every last one of us and that war/civil unrest is happening everywere all the time every second of every day but you know what else.

im gonna cook and paint and maybe finish my verson of a stitched quilt blanket thing i saw at target for too much money that i liked the texture but hatted that it was like 100+ dollars for a white comforter with black stitching all down it.

i made the same one out of 2 cotton sheets my grandma had and i got rainbow thread its 1/4 of the way done and everything is over priced and on fire but i got that beautifulthread from an estate sale that had ended and the queer man that ran it said he couldnt sell the old womans yarn and that i could have this ( 1) rainbow ream of thick thread if i would take all 6 boxes of yarn that that woman probaly had collected for years.

i gave the yarn to my mom and told her a nice man gave it to me and she said he probaly didnt want to see sit in his shop for ever and she was glad the womans collection would get used. im sure that woman would be happy to know even though shes gone theres kids that have hats for winter now. old people got blankets and my mom can crochet for free so she didnt mind one bit giving away nearly everything she made.

nothing is free and everything cost money and people die and are selfish.

sometime tho it isnt ture and people arent and even if bad things happen I have a blanket and a hat. those things dont matter but what i feel about them does and no one can take that away from me.

[astroboots]

Issue #11

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel brings you gifts.

Word count: 3,600

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

Stark’s courier service arrives at your hotel the following day, a crew of four brawny looking men dressed in overalls, carrying in some 13 boxes of equipment, which take up the majority of the floor space of your luxury suite. 

It finds residence in the seating area of the hotel room. Fancy looking gadgets of shiny chrome and colorful LED lights that look like they were stolen from the movie set of Back to the Future. 

Miguel sets up shop, turning the pink girly vanity dressing table into an impromptu workbench. It’s where he’s been seated most of the last 36 hours, hunched over the tiny little table tinkering with the watch and various futuristic looking mechanical gears at all hours of the night. 

The laser scalpel he’s using might be soundless, but Miguel sure isn’t. Last night, you’d been constantly woken up by his growling as he trashes another expensive looking tool with an angry growl. Pacing the room for a few minutes, mumbling and complaining about the cheap quality of Stark tech and how primitive this world is. Then he's right back at it, sitting back down on the little pink velvet ottoman to continue tinkering. 

Tonight is no different. You’re in bed, scrolling your phone to unwind before going to sleep, when you hear him grumble again then stab the laser scalpel into the surface of the table. 

Peeling off the fluffy comfortable quilt wrapped around you, you make your way over to him before he destroys any more fancy furniture you can never dream of affording to replace on your modest salary. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, as you stand behind him. 

“Bastard’s tagged the thing with a receptor that feeds information about any modifications made back to him. It’s booby trapped so that if I try to remove it, the whole thing will disintegrate.”

You lean over to peer at the desk over his shoulder, observing the arc reactor that's pulsing like a beating heart with a glow of blue. 

“Does it matter? Let him have your technology.” 

In the reflection of the vanity mirror, you can see the small muscle in his jaw tic with irritation. 

“No,” he says flatly, picking up the scalpel again from where it’s wedged into the table. “We can’t risk him getting a hold of inter-dimensional technology. I don’t want Stark to be able to locate and come after you.”

Oh Jesus, not this again. 

“I already told you, I’m not interested in Tony Stark." You resist the urge to roll your eyes at part two of Miguel's unwarranted jealousy feud with Stark. Didn’t the two of you have a heartfelt conversation about this? 

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He's grinding down on his jaw with irritated anger at whatever it is he’s thinking but not sharing with you. “We can’t trust him.”

“He’s a superhero, Miguel, just like you. If we can't trust him, then I don't know who we can trust.”

Miguel's mouth pulls into a grim and tight line at your words.  For a brief moment, you think you catch a hint of fear on his face, before he breaks eye contact and turns away, back towards the bench. It takes you by surprise because you didn’t think Miguel was scared of anything. 

“Tony Stark is one of the good guys,” you try again.

You rest a hand on the edge of his shoulder, trying to help placate his unease. “He’s an Avenger, remember? It's their job to protect the world.”

It dawns on you when you hear the words from your own mouth. The reason why he doesn’t want Tony Stark to be able to keep tabs on you and come after you.

The Avengers are meant to protect the world from any threats, and right now one of the greatest threats to this world is… you.

“Oh,” the tiny sound punches out of you as a yawning pit of uncertainty and fear opens up in your stomach.

One in every 40 New Yorkers will have a run-in with Superhero in their time in the city. 

You've just always thought that, if your turn to encounter the Avengers came, it would be as a grateful civilian saved from the clutches of evil. You never thought it would be because you were the danger the world needed saving from.

Miguel must sense the moment the realization hits you, because he sets aside his tools and takes your hand, gently stroking the palm of it with his thumb.

"You have nothing to worry about, it’s just going to take some time," he murmurs, and he looks up at you with such warmth it makes the anxiety in you thaw slightly. "I'll be done with it soon.”

He eyes the arc reactor, not letting go of your hand. "Try to get some sleep."

You fall asleep to the white noise of tinkering metal and Miguel’s frustrated murmured curses. The noises should annoy you, but they don't. You find it oddly comforting, being able to hear Miguel move around in the same room as you when you’re in bed. Know with every fiber of your being that his presence means you're safe and easily drift fast asleep.

You don't know how long you stay asleep for or how much sleep you manage to catch before you feel the bed dip beside you.

"Hey," a voice softly cajoles you. There's a warm palm on your shoulder, gently nudging you awake. But you're not prepared to wake yet. Too comfortable in the haze of sleep to give it up.

You bury your head into the pillow, hoping to shut out any interference that's trying to keep you from your sleep.

"Cielito," the gentle voice tries again. "Wake up."

Grumpily and with great resistance, you strain to turn your head, squinting your eyes awake to see Miguel's face filling your vision.

It’s dark in here save for a small lamp left on in the far off corner. In this muted light, his scarlet eyes are illuminated with an otherworldly brilliance. If you had been more awake, you would have wanted to take a second or two to marvel at how beautiful they are.

"I got something for you," he says. 

There’s a barely contained eagerness in his voice as he speaks, and sleepy as you are, it peaks your interest. You blink your eyes properly open, adjusting to the dim dark to see two small boxes set next to your pillow.

"Miguel, it's..." you flick your wrist towards you, when you remember the watch is no longer there. It’s odd how naked you feel without Lyla as your constant companion on your wrist.  

You awkwardly prop yourself up on an elbow with great effort to figure out time the old fashioned way, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 

In a bright glaring LED, the digits announce: 01:00. 

Past midnight?! Has he lost his mind?

"It's one in the morning! Why are you waking me up after midnight!?"

Unbothered by your outrage, he continues to lean across you to drag one of the boxes closer.

 "I'm finally done modifying the parallel universe traversal device, so I got you something to celebrate." 

You blink up at him in surprise. When he said he’d be done soon, you didn’t think he meant tonight. 

“It’s from that place you wanted Stark to take you," he says, opening the box one-handed to reveal a gaudy looking golden donut waiting for you.

Then he drags the second box over, setting it next to the first and flips the lid open. Inside are half a dozen cinnamon-sugared donuts.

"And these are regular old donuts, from the Lower East Side for fifty cents each. We can do a comparison test. If that ugly golden donut is tastier, I’ll chop off my arm.”

You snort out a laugh. His one-sided feud with Tony Stark is alive and well you see. You don’t understand why this has become such a point of contention for him. Stark had never actually suggested he was going to get you golden donuts. 

Before you have the chance to dig in, Miguel puts out his hand, palm up, on the mattress in invitation. "Give me your hand first," he instructs.

You oblige him, placing your hand in the middle of his, and he wraps the familiar watch around your wrist. Except it’s not as familiar as you remember it to be. It’s considerably chunkier now to accommodate Stark's arc reactor that sits in the middle and if anything it looks more like a cuff bracelet than a watch.   

But you don’t mind, you’re glad to have the comforting weight of it back on your arm, wrist no longer feeling quite so naked.

“It’s bulkier than I would’ve liked. But there’s no helping how primitive Stark’s tech is,” Miguel snarks, clearly pleased with himself even though the man he’s bitching about isn’t even in the room to hear his clever insults. 

In the gloomy light, the bright blue gem of the arc reactor shines back at you like a precious jewel. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were wearing jewelry fit for royalty. 

"I like this upgrade on the watch. It’s pretty.”

"Not a watch," Miguel corrects, but he's not scolding you. The fondness in his voice is plainly there. 

Looking up you meet his eyes to see the open affection that's there for you. Your face warms under his unwavering attention, until you have to duck your head down, unable to hold his gaze anymore. 

You reach over the bed, to busy yourself, bypassing the golden donut to pick up one of the plain cinnamon ones. In the corner of your eye, you catch his lips curve into a smile as you take a large bite of the regular-non-golden donut. 

He would gloat about that, wouldn’t he, the overgrown childish brat. You grin around the mouthful, as the sugar melts onto the tip of your tongue and you moan loudly at the perfect warm cinnamon that floods your senses. 

Miguel is still smiling at you warmly, face propped in his broad hand as he watches you eat, and the heat in your face reaches an almost feverish pitch under his gaze. 

"So what's next?" you force yourself to ask him over a muffled mouthful to distract yourself. 

"Get some rest, sleep in. We'll take this for a few test drives in the morning to make sure it works the way it's supposed to, and then I'll take you to my home world."

There's a jittery sensation. A mix of exhilaration, excitement and anxiety blending with the sugar in your stomach at the unknown that waits before you. Even though you knew this day was coming since your visit at Wong, now that the time has come you're nervous. 

The only world you’ve ever known is your own. You’re hardly an intrepid traveler. During your gap year in Europe, the use of the metric system was a culture shock for you. You can't even begin to imagine what it'll be like to travel to another alternate reality.

But you’re going to have to do it—and keep doing it, if Wong is correct.

Will you need to get a whole new wardrobe to fit in with the fashion trends of each universe? Will you have to learn new languages? Will there be a thousand sets of unfamiliar customs and quirks you’ll have to learn to adapt to? 

…Will Miguel be there for any of it?

Biting down on your lip, you try to stave off the tight knot in your stomach. 

One thing that's become clear is that even if Miguel takes you to his world, you won’t be able to stay there for very long. You aren’t going to be able to stay anywhere for very long. 

Even if he intends to give you Lyla for good or build you another device that allows you to jump from world to world... what then?

Will he come with you? 

Or will you be left to travel by yourself from one unknown world to another?

The loneliness of that fate makes your stomach hurt. You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that you want him to come with you more than anything, but you have no right to ask that of him. Not after everything he’s already done for you. 

Like he can read your mind, Miguel gives you an appraising look.

"Once we're in Nueva York, we'll stay there for as long as it's safe," Miguel says, leaning across your lap to snag a donut from the box next to you for himself, and you try to ignore the heat that goes skittering through your leg when his arm brushes past your knee. "Then we'll jump to the next location."

You watch him scarf the cinnamony treat down in two mouthfuls, barely chewing. Your heart leaps excitedly until it jumps all the way to your throat. 

"We?"

He grins, crumbs of caramelized sugar dotted on the curve of his lips. "I can't leave you by yourself, can I?"

Your mouth opens and closes, then opens again and you leave it there, hanging in the air, probably looking incredibly dumb and speechless. 

You don’t know what to say to him. Don’t think there are adequate words in the English dictionary capable of expressing how happy it makes you to know that you’ll have him by your side. 'Thank you' seems incredibly lacking.

Somehow despite that you are both sitting down, he still dwarfs you and from your seated position you barely come up to his shoulders. You don’t quite know why you do it, but you move before you think, getting to your knees to lean up and place a small kiss on his cheek. 

A faint pink tinges his cheeks at the small contact. Then it’s his turn to duck down. He scoots over, bringing the smaller donut box closer to you. 

"Eat your golden donut," he says.

You peer up at him. The way his mouth pulls into a tiny and almost shy smile, and happiness buzzes in your chest at the sight.

A dopey smile spreads across your cheeks as you watch him. The way he rubs one broad hand over his jaw to hide his reddening face from you.

Taking the box from him, you look down at the shiny pastry. If your words are failing you, maybe food can speak for you instead. You pick up the golden donut in your hand and hold it out to him.

“You go first,” you offer.

There’s not a second of hesitation from Miguel. He leans down and takes a large bite of the gilded pastry, fangs first, puncturing the soft, squishy dough. 

The whole thing bursts, and you squeal with laughter as the champagne flavored jelly filling squirts across his bottom lip, onto your fingers and drips onto the sheets below. 

“Miguel, you’re making a complete mess!”

You lick up the sticky jam from your fingers as you watch him. There’s dust of gold smudging against his cheeks and even on his nose as he takes another bite. You’re tittering with amusement at the sight of him. 

“Here you got some–” you bring your thumb to help him wipe at the corner of his mouth.

For a man who doesn’t like casual touches, sneering even at the idea of handshakes as a greeting at work, he doesn’t seem to mind yours.

Miguel lets you rub off the flecks of gold from his cheek, eyes dropping half-closed in contentment. His jaw moves under your hand as his mouth drops open, then he presses his lips to the inside of your palm. 

It’s a barely there touch, but it has warmth furl from the middle of your stomach and blooms outward, spreading to the rest of you. 

In this gigantic Wyoming king-sized bed, Miguel is seated close enough to you that your knees touch. He’s close. So close that you can feel the heat rolling off of his big body.

Somehow that's not close enough, because you close the remaining distance between you, until your knee is pressed against the firm inside of his thigh, his broad shoulders brush against yours. 

It wouldn’t take much now. If you leaned up at this moment. If you tilted your head upwards even slightly. Your lips would be on his.  

You shouldn’t, the small voice in your head warns. Kissing him is probably not a good idea.

He might not feel the same. Kissing him might change something irreparably between you, and then who will you travel the outer limits of the universe with? 

But... if you're going to die tomorrow or the next day or next week, then what does it all matter anyhow? What’s a little bit of rejection when the end of the world is hiding right behind the next corner. 

You tilt up and press your lips to his top lip, then the full lower one. It’s chaste and brief, and only lasts for a second. But for a first time it’s familiar and intimate in a way that it can only be with you and Miguel. 

His lips are warm and dry and slightly open under the press of yours and it sends a fluttering warmth from the tip of your nose to the end of your fingertips. 

You pull back with the tiniest movement, nose still brushing against his, as you gather the courage to look up at his face and try to find out if you just made a terrible mistake. 

Those scarlet eyes are staring down at you in that familiar way you catch him doing sometimes. When he thinks you're not paying attention to him and his eyes lingers on your face.

His thumb catches behind your ear, face inching closer, and then he’s kissing you back. It’s sweet and electric, the sensation surges through you with a giddiness that makes your toes curl. 

Miguel presses his lips to yours and holds you there. Long consecutive kisses that don't let you pull up for air. His other hand gently cups your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheeks like you’re the most precious thing his big hands has ever held. 

You want this to last, that it could always be like this. You want it to be you and him. 

This man who brings you cupcakes when you’re crying. Who saves you the best portion of the food that he likes even though he’s a glutton. Who folds you paper flowers and leaves them on your desk to make you smile when you’re having a bad day at work. A man who stays by your side through the end of the world and never asks you for anything in return.

You love him. 

One large hand covers the back of your neck. He tilts you back, like he’s trying to shield and protect you as he holds you. Holds you like he’s never going to let go. 

Then he stops. 

Why is he stopping? 

He stiffens above you, the whole of his back tensing. You chase his lips but he is already pulling back and away from you. 

Your eyes open to the muted darkness of the room. 

In front of you, Miguel is looking at you with an expression you can't pin down. Eyes wide, and distracted. For a terrifying moment, you think that the look on his face is one of regret. 

Maybe he realized he doesn’t feel that way about you after all. Maybe he's trying to find a way to let you down gently.

You pull back and study his face.

No… it’s not that. 

His expression is the same distant look he had two seconds before a helicopter crashed into your apartment. The same tension in his eyes that will have him hauling you into his arms to protect you from a rogue vehicle. The same pinch in his brow when he’ll stop a conversation with you mid-sentence because the ceiling is about to cave in and he needs to push you out of harm’s way. 

Something is wrong. 

A cold sliver of fear crawls up your spine as Miguel’s face turns, and he stares into the empty space of the room beyond the bed. 

There’s speck of pink spilling onto the sheets on your lap like the color of the sun on stained glass from the outside. 

You follow his gaze in the direction of the radiant dusk pouring in from the window. 

It’s too bright for one A.M, enough to be blinding. 

Pulling away the quilt from your body, you slide out of bed and walk towards the brightness pouring in from the outside until you’re standing in front of the wide glass panes of the balcony.

You look up at the sky, and it’s not the familiar calm midnight-blue. There are vivid streaks of fluorescent pink and glowing purple staining the sky. There are fractures in the sky like someone took a sledge hammer to it and cracked it wide open.

The cityscape looks like it is folding onto itself. Skyscrapers, bridges, and streets are contorted and warped like badly-folded origami. The impossible architecture reminds you of a M.C Escher painting you saw on a school trip at MoMA as a child.

Outside, the pavements of New York is mirrored where the sky is supposed to be. Silhouettes of skyscrapers spring out from below and above and the vast sky is wedged between. Up is down and down is up and nothing makes sense anymore. 

You've seen this scene take place before, when you were under Wong's multidimensional spell.

Your universe is starting to collapse. 

The end of the world is here. You’ve officially run out of time. 

~ Next Issue

Dedications & Credits:

To @guruan for her endless kindness and incredibly talented. I cannot thank her enough for the art she gifts me with that constantly inspires my little squirrel brain and drives me to write like I am possessed.

And @thirstworldproblemss my babe, my bestie, my moose! Thank you for always being there with your pretty face!! I adore and love you, our friendship and time together brings me endless joy. Thank you for going on this ride with me.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Some casual, domestic ghoul thoughts, because why not? Let's go.

-Mountain has a trunk of blankets at the end of his bed; It's this big, chunky box he's had forever, a family heirloom, maybe, but even he isn't sure of its origins, and, inside of it, are all these handmade, knit or woven blankets and handstitched quilts that he only breaks out during the fall and winter months.

They all smell distinctly of the wood the box is made out of and a sort of softer, cool scent that's hard to place but somehow feels... familiar and soothing.

He only ever hang dries them, and he repairs them himself if any of they get stained or torn.

Sometimes, if one of his fellow ghouls isn't feeling well, he'll grab one of the lighter quilts to tuck them into their beds with, and while it doesn't have any sort of magical healing qualities, the comfort and smell often helps the others sleep a little better.

-Dew can knit, and makes a lot of hats, gloves, and scarves when he's bored, which he usually donates once he's done.

He has a couple sweaters he made for himself that he usually wears around the abbey once it gets cold out, and once knit a teeny tiny baby sweater with a matching hat and booties as a baby shower gift for one of the sisters of sin, because he wanted to test the crochet pattern... so he could make a sweater for his Baphomet plush.

Some of his "scrapped" knitting projects can be found throughout the ghouls' den, including, but not limited to; Two sets of potholders, about a dozen mug covers, one of those chunky yarn blankets you make using your arms as the needles, and three failed crochet Baphomets in varying stages of completeness.

-Cirrus collects small, carved figurines of animals, and has even made a few herself; She started her collection after she found a frog carved out of soapstone at an antique shop in one of the towns they passed through on tour, and it's grown since then.

She usually just displays them in her room, but she also likes to pop them into little nooks and empty spaces in the den to make it feel more "homey" to her.

As for the ones she's made herself, Cirrus usually takes a bit of wood and whittles it down over the course of an afternoon to make various little creatures and the occasional woodland scene.

Additionally, she's also gotten into pyrography, aka wood burning, and has made a couple art pieces that she's sold on the sly in the town nearby the abbey.

And lastly;

-Aurora took up pottery not long after she was summoned, using it to connect herself to her elements and feel more whole in the process, but it became a fun hobby as well, and now she makes little knickknacks and things that for gifts or just to spruce up her room.

Sometimes, when she's bored, she'll make weird clay creatures or ones based off of folklore and set them out in the common room's mantle, with an everchanging story being played out with the figures.

She has also made clay figures of her packmates, usually basing them off of photos, and displays them instead of putting pictures on the wall.

Her first sculpt lives on Copia's desk in his office, and is of a small, slightly wonky looking bird.

[wafflepatterns]

New sewing pattern <Kikyo> 3-in-1 Jacket

A new item is just released from Waffle Patterns. Meet the 3-in-1 Jacket <Kikyo> sewing pattern. This is a set of 3 items; an outdoor style jacket + zip-in/zip-out removable hood + zip-in/zip-out removable liner. Convenient and fun utility item for your trip, outdoor activity or daily use for all seasons!

You can make only an unlined utility jacket or a full set of items.

<design options>

-Jacket The jacket is unlined with a zipper+button opening. There are a lot of functional pockets. Please mix and combine the pocket designs as your usage.

The waist pockets have 2 kinds of hand-warmer layer designs. One is easy to sew patch type, and one is a welt type. The chest pocket designs are 2 types, too; flap+patch or zipper type.

My personal favourite is the zipper pocket on the chest and the sleeve pocket. I find they are very handy. I always put important things here like keyholders.

There are other functional details like a back belt, sleeve pleats, or shoulder tabs. You can skip some details.

The fit is loose-regular for room of the removable liner.

-Removable Liner The liner is zip-in / zip-out type. You can attach it to the shell at the front facing with zippers supported by small buttons and elastic loops.

It has a pocket and you can use as an inside pocket.

Of course, you can skip the liner. But it is very fun to add! And pretty easy to sew compared to the shell.

Btw, it is not really impossible to wear this liner as a jacket, especially if you make both inside and out clean. But the front area of the fitting goes off, so I do not recommend it officially.

-Removable Hood The zip-in / zip-out removable hood is lined and has a front button opening. You can attach it to the shell at the neckline on the collar by a zipper. The zipper is attached to the inside of the hood, so the hood layer comes outside of the garment. I found it is functional because when it rains, the rainwater should not sit between the layer of the Collar and hood. It has a string, but you can skip this.

Please make your creative style by mixing your favourite details!

<fabric recommendation>

<Shell> The pattern is drafted for woven fabrics. Light to medium weight durable but not too stiff woven jacket fabrics are recommended. like denim, gabardine, twill, canvas, etc.

Please consider the fabric with some body because it has to support the removable liner.

If your fabric is very thick/stiff, please consider using other lighter fabrics partly to avoid the thick layers, like pocket flaps or layered pocket parts.

Please choose a suitable one for your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples.

<Lining for shell> The hood and the pocket bags use lining fabric. Normal lining fabrics like plain cotton or acetate will work, but functional ones like quilted or faux fur will be fun, too.

<Removable liner> The liner constructed from; -Lining fabric(outside) -Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear)

-Lining fabric(outside) Light weight lining fabric with a smooth texture will work like plain cotton or acetate etc.

-Thermal lining fabric (inside when you wear) Consider fabric like thin quilt, light weight fleece, flannel, or light faux fur, etc.

I recommend avoiding too heavy fabrics which cannot be supported by the shell. I made one with boiled wool. It is very warm but a bit heavy. A thick quilt may be too much volume. If you want to go with a volumy liner, maybe going 1-2 size up is a better idea.

For flannel and fleece versions, I used slippery fabric for the sleeve parts of the inside liner for comfort, but maybe no need to do that depending on your intention. If you use thick or fluffy fabric and worry about comfort about this part, please remember slippery fabrics are a safer choice.

<Sample fabrics in the photos> Here is a fabric list I used for the samples. I could not get all the shops which I bought from because some are too old or from wholesalers.

- Brick orange x plaid Shell ; cotton mixed twill Liner (thermal inside) ; wool mixed flannel Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- Yellow sample Shell ; light weight water repellent outdoor fabric (from kniphal.nl) I think it is not for garments originally, but not very thick so it still worked. Liner (thermal inside) ; thin pre-quilted (thin insulation like under 80g backed with satin) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

- khaki sample Shell ; cotton mixed twill (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (thermal inside) ; light fleece (from nnstoffen.nl) Liner (outside) ; plain cotton lining

The fabric choice all depends on your design intention and how you want to wear it. I strongly recommend checking with actual samples as much as possible. Also researching store bought jackets will help your ideas.

<Size>

The fitting is loose-regular. I made just size for the yellow and khaki, but the orange one is one size smaller because the liner is thinner. I strongly recommend making a muslin for perfect fit. Some of my testers made 1 size larger with a mid-weight liner. If you use very fluffy volumy liner or want to wear thick sweater underneath, maybe considering 1-2 size larger is a good idea.

<Other materials>

-Zipper for attaching the liner I used general width (about 28mm) plastic teeth zippers. Because 2 zipper tapes come on the R-side facing(see the 1st photo), wide type zippers are not suitable.

-Zipper for attaching the hood This part is curved, so should be flexible. I used plastic teeth type and have no problem. Maybe some coil types are more flexible. But, I avoided coil type because I broke them often for some reason (maybe only me?)

Also, this jacket comes with many zipper tapes, I prefer plastic type because of the light weight.

-Other I attached the tabs on the pocket flaps. Those are pieces of folded twill tape(keperband).

<Other>

-Because the jacket is unlined, I finished the most seams with flat fell seam. If you do this, maybe it is better to add extra 2-3mm to the seam allowance. Some parts are not suitable for flat fell finish like bulky parts or armholes. I used bias tapes for armholes, and serger for bulky parts(like front yoke with flap).

-If you do not like visible zipper tapes, you can add twill tape or folded strips of shell fabric over the zipper tape.

-Some store bought jackets with a zip-on hood use a placket over the zipper. I think it is suitable if your fabric is thin. (I tried one and find too bulky)

********************* The sewing pattern includes 18 pages of instructions and all the sewing processes are described with detailed illustrations. The pattern files are available for both home printers (A4 or US letter) and copyshop(A0 format).

You can check other photos of this model on my Flickr page.

The 3-in-1 Jacket -Kikyo- (size 32 - 54) PDF sewing pattern is available here. Also in the Etsy shop.

Special discount price until 14th Oct. 2024 (CEST) with other popular patterns. No discount code is needed! The sale page is here.

*****  Special offer for Paper pattern and free shipping Paper pattern + PDF option is available limited time. *The paper includes only the pattern, please print out the instruction by yourself or read it with your tablet or PC.  The PDF + Paper listing page is here.

Enjoy your sewing!

(Japanese post here 日本語ポストはこちら).

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

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[syoddeye]

the warren, part five - abscond

price x f!reader | 5.1k words | series page | ao3 tags: alcohol, implied domestic abuse, infidelity, unsettling vibes, darkfic. a/n: run, run, run away. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

“How long?”

“Usual.”

“So, two weeks? Three?”

“Does it fucking matter?” The bag’s zipper hisses harshly as it’s drawn shut. “You making plans?”

You take a breath and ignore the condoms sticking out of the duffel’s pouch, smoothing the quilt at the end of the bed. “No, but I’d like to plan the grocery shopping.”

He cuts you with a blank stare, then fishes out his reds and lighter. His brows lower when your lips purse, but you don’t say a word. Smoking indoors is repulsive, but it’s not worth it—not now.

“Three.” The lighter clicks. “Won’t have my phone on me. But I’ll text when I’m on my way back, so you can plan to have dinner ready.”

You rise at the beep of the coffee pot in the kitchen. It’s three am, and the sunrise is a distant thought in the deep indigo sky. You dream of fixing him decaf, of him nodding off and driving off the road. Flipping the car or soaring through the windshield. The scene is crystal clear in your imagination, vivid and visceral. With a smile, you hand him his thermos and lunch box for the road.

“Goodbye.” you murmur as he bypasses you completely, not bothering with acts of affection anymore. You watch him toss his work bags into the truck bed and flinch as he violently yanks the door open.

“And good luck.”

~~

You watch the truck until it disappears around the bend, hand pressed to your thundering heart. It’s not him. It’s not even the same model. It’s just a white truck. There must be dozens driving around the lake right now. It’s guilt rearing its ugly head. A ghost. Of course, things remind you of him, but it’s as if kissing John brought them into focus. One man’s affection dredging the maltreatment of another.

Swallowing hard, you turn and continue. It’s Saturday, the store’s busiest day, and you cannot be late.

Sure enough, there are customers already inside. The radio by the register spouts the weather forecast, a blissful day in the mid-seventies, and transitions into an upbeat song. The smile on your face grows at the sight of John wishing a couple in hiking gear a good time on the trails. His eyes flick over their heads to you as you pass, and you feel them when you duck into the back room to hang your bag on the hook.

“Good morning.”

You turn, finding John filling the doorway, and you cannot stop yourself from glancing at his mouth. “Morning.”

“Sleep well? I know I did.”

You nod automatically, though it’s a white lie, stomach jumping at the smug tinge to his voice. You don’t recall your dreams, but you woke up with a name on your tongue like a curse, hallucinating nicotine.

“I did.” You flirt, eager to move on from memory. “Can’t imagine why.”

John nods in return, quiet for a moment of study. His eyes pinch a fraction. “Don’t s’pose you’ve heard the news?”

Your brows raise. News?

His expression softens, and a hand finds your elbow, tugging you close. “Well…” 

~~

It’s terrible, and it happens every summer. As perennial as the balsamroot or beardtongues growing on the mountain.

An inevitability when you mix alcohol, winding roads, and the brand of arrogance unique to young men, so John says. He consoles you, arms encircling you the second your lip quivers. The three faces of the men are fresh, and it isn’t a great leap for your mind to pulverize and paint them bloody. To bend and wrap limbs around their crumpled Jeep. John whispers comforts in your ear and wipes the tears you shed for the strangers, as unpleasant as they were.

Someone raps their knuckles on the counter. John takes the time to kiss you anyway.

It leaves you dizzy when he finally breaks it to assist the customer. You lean on the wall, head slotted between coat hooks, and collect yourself. 

Of course, you did not like the strangers and did not care to know them. You admittedly wished them ill or injury, but for their short lives to be snuffed out as gruesomely as they were? No one deserves that.

A steady flow of customers eventually eases the weight, their excitable moods, chattering about their vacation plans. John claps a hand on your shoulder in the afternoon and tells you to take the rest of the day, says it’s sweet you’re so tender-hearted, like a good girl.

In his fashion, he doesn’t leave time to process that.

“Come back at close. I’d like to talk about last night.”

~~

The sound of gravel crunching lifts your head from your book, and you tense at the sight of a dark-colored sedan cruising toward the cabin. Tinted windows obscure the driver, and as they idle, you tuck your bookmark and stand. You wish the screened porch was actually capable of keeping anything out.

The car shuts off as the driver pops the door. It’s no stranger. It’s the man from the Echo. Phil.

Your stomach drops.

His smile is brilliant, even in the shade. A pair of sunglasses rest atop his head, flattening a tuft of sandy hair. “Afternoon, miss.” He calls out, strolling leisurely. With his hands planted on his narrow hips, it’s difficult to ignore the holster. You want to believe he’s simply a local, most of them armed to the teeth, but the tucked-in t-shirt emblazoned with pine trees and the words ‘ I had the pine of my life in Ponderosa ' screams ‘not from here’. You briefly wonder if he sees the same thing, looking at you.

You offer a smile anyway. “Hello again.”

“Hope you don’t mind me butting in on your afternoon, but I was hoping you had a minute for a quick chat.”

How he acquired your address and directions, you don’t know. “May I ask what about?”

He smirks and fishes out a thick wallet. He flips it open and presses it to the screen with a chuckle. Three letters in big, bold print. Your prediction manifest. “An investigation I’m assistin’ with.” He dips his head toward the front door. “Mind if I come in, Miss…?”

The faint blare of a horn echoes from the recesses of your mind. His question slams into you one syllable at a time, and the blank space he leaves for your name grabs you by the throat. He isn’t a backwoods landlord. This is someone who’ll run your name through some database. Who has access to records and resources.

So you give him your name, the real one, and hope for the best.

~~

Phil Graves.

A grim name. Hokey, too.

It feels as though you’ve plunged to the bottom of the deepest part of the lake, blood colder than glacial ice. He hasn’t elaborated on what sort of investigation an agency like the FBI would open out here. Nevertheless, you fix him a coffee with four sugars. It’s tooth-rotting, stirring in too many crystals to possibly dissolve, yet he accepts it with a warm thank you.

You stare, a tiny smile glued to your face. Phil’s handsome, you admit. The scar on his cheek and notched ear give him a roguish quality, an edge to his otherwise clean-cut look. You peek at the kitschy shirt.

“I know, not my color.” He jokes. “Tryin’ to blend in. Act as the locals do.”

Having lived among them for weeks, you’re confident in deeming his efforts a failure. 

“Y’know, the coffee shop ‘cross the lake makes a good cup. Ever been?” You shake your head. “Shame. Now…” He sets the mug aside to place his phone on the low table. “Mind if I record our discussion? Sharp as I am, I find listening back to these things particularly illuminating.”

“I suppose, but could you tell me what this is about?”

He takes it as consent and taps record . “Certainly. Repeat your name for the recording, Miss…?” His eyes trace your figure in a study as you repeat it. “Although I cannot divulge the original purposes for my traveling to this corner of the country, I was asked to assist with a crash that occurred at approximately zero two hundred. Normally below my paygrade,” He chuckles, “But I thought, hell, I got the time.”

The Jeep. “I heard about that. I thought it was fairly straightforward from what was said on the radio. Drunk driving?”

Phil nods. “Awful thing and under normal circumstances, yes, it would be straightforward. Open and shut, but due to my other work, we’re exhausting all possibilities before calling it.”

Normal circumstances. The phone’s recorder waveform steadily scrolls by. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain what I can, sugar.” His smile is as practiced and patronizing as it was at the diner. “Two witnesses. First, a hiker camping near the crash site. They reportedly heard at least two bikes racing before the wreck. Then, they heard them come to a stop, idlin’ for several minutes.”

He pauses, almost expectantly, as if you’re supposed to say something.

“Maybe the bikers called in the accident?”

Phil shakes his head. “No, see, after they apparently stopped, there was—and, I’m real sorry if you’re the sensitive type—screaming. Someone was alive in the wreckage.”

A wave of nausea sinks you further into the cushions. “Screaming?”

“Yep. Then it got quiet, and the bikes continued on their way.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, tongue drying, uncertain as to why Phil’s telling you all this.

“The second witness called in and stated you got into it with those unfortunates earlier in the day.” 

Fear pins you to your seat. As if every tissue in your body calcifies instantly, your heart sinking like a stone, and crashing through your rib cage. A stuttering nothing leaves your mouth, a single sound of panic and disbelief. He cannot honestly believe you were involved. What if he’s already looked you up, and only asked for your name for confirmation? What if there’s a bulletin? If he’s notified—

“Can you verify that claim, sugar?”

“Yes, well, no.”

“Yes and no? Which is it?”

You clear your throat to buy a second to compose yourself, but it comes out in a tremulous flood. You chide yourself for folding so easily. “Yes, they came to the store, um, Grouse Grocery? On the main road? I work there, but we didn’t ‘get into it’. They were rude, but they paid for everything and left within five minutes.”

“How’d they leave?”

“They got into a Jeep.”

“Did anyone leave after them? Did you see anyone follow them?”

“I didn’t watch after they left. I was simply glad they did.”

“You said they were ‘untoward’. Elaborate, will you? They hit on you?” He takes a long, loud sip of his coffee and smacks his lips.  

~~

“‘Scuse me, pumpkin.”

Pumpkin. You blink, stepping away from the coolers, water cup crinkling in your hand.

The man stoops to grab a can from the melting ice, flicking his fingers free of droplets. He catches you watching and smirks, standing close when he straightens.

“‘Like your dress.” He drawls.

It’s tangerine. Soft, secondhand, and newly mended. You fixed the zipper that morning. “Thanks.”

You expect him to leave after that, rejoin the throng of bodies crammed into the house. Leave you to your wallflower habits. You might still live in the Iron Range if he did.

Instead, he peppers you with questions. You don’t realize he’s flirting until he plants a hand over your head and smiles. All the other boys you’ve fooled around with were mean first. Teasing. He’s different. Polite, charming, and a little rugged. He asks for your plans for the summer and doesn’t make you feel stupid to admit you don’t have any. There’s no job or dorm room waiting. Your father forbade both.

“What about you?”

He licks his teeth. “Heading west in a couple months. Silver’s coming back. Got the last of my certifications and an offer out at a mine. Plenty of money to be made.” he shrugs. “I’m just blowing off steam ‘til then.”

Embarrassment rides on the butterflies in your stomach. A real adult, a man—one with a future and direction. A ticket out.

~~

“Well, one of them more so than his buddies. He called me ‘baby’ and said I was cute,” You hug yourself, shoulders drawing up. “He said he’d find me at close.”

Phil squints and drapes his arms over his knees. “What happened after they left?”

“I kept working. When my boss got in, he decided to close early so I wouldn't have to see those guys again.”

“Who’s your boss?”

A glint in Phil’s eye suggests he knows precisely who owns the store. This, too, must be protocol. Part of his official investigative record. “John Price.”

His lip quirks. “John Price. I’m familiar. Awfully nice of him, to close early and take you home.”

You smile nervously, though you’re unsure why. John paid you a kindness, which led to another. Your belly warms at the memory of him kissing you, but it melts away like film—you didn’t mention John giving you a lift. Pain blooms in your cheek as you sink your teeth into it. Phil finishes the dregs of his coffee, smirking into the mug, seemingly relishing your look of realization. You reach for whatever bit of nerve you have left.

“Do y’know if anyone in town owns a bike? I’d be interested in speaking with them, too.”

“I don’t.”

“What about dirt bikes? There are trails an hour west, and a fork that’s maybe, what, a half hour out?”

Sweat prickles the back of your neck at the words. It’s a fight to keep your face plain and sweet, to stifle the acrid taste of panic. You do know someone with a dirt bike, a man whose scarred skin and jagged features discourage examination. Whose mouth curled when he got a good look at you, cementing that unexplained aversion. An aversion that eddies out of your head and through your teeth.

“Nope. No one.”

Phil’s scrutiny needles at your resolve, testing for weakness. You think he might find it the longer his silence drags on. Agents and officers are trained for this, and you’re…you. You hold yourself tight enough to bruise.

He sucks his teeth as he stops the recording. The phone disappears as he stands. “Thank you for your cooperation and hospitality.”

You escort him to the front door, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.

Phil rests on the frame and picks at the peeling paint on the jamb. “Can I ask you something off record, sugar? You do proper research before comin’ out here? I know you’re not from here. You’re not…” His voice trails, scanning every feature. “Like them. The locals.”

You did. You aren’t the most savvy user of the Internet; you mostly peruse message boards for jobs and monitor your meager bank account. The homestead didn’t have Wi-Fi, dial-up, or any other means. The satellite dish on the roof was for cable, which was disconnected during your stints alone. You had managed, made do.

“I don’t follow, Mr. Graves.”

“Phil, sugar,” he corrects. “What I’m getting at is, you might want to consider about pullin’ up stakes. Find somewhere else to bed down for a while. Grouse Bay, Ponderosa—the area’s a breeding ground for bad shit. One too many ‘accidents’ if you ask me.”

You frown. “It’s not that bad. It’s summer. People make stupid decisions.”

Phil’s perpetual smile shrinks and tightens into a line. “I’m not just talkin’ about those boys. You oughta crack a book or take a gander at the microfilm at the library. Learn history.”

Despite your disinclination to listen to him, curiosity stings like a side stitch.

“I can tell you more if you’d like.” His mouth splits into a toothy grin. The severity gone. “How’s about we grab coffee? I could accompany you to the library.”

You immediately think of two men who wouldn’t care for that, but mention only one. Given what you’re doing with John, it's hypocritical, but Phil doesn’t need to know the extent of your transgressions. “Thank you for the offer, but my husband–”

“Husband?” He echoes. “Don’t see a ring on your finger. Don’t see a man around. If you’re not interested, you don’t have to lie. Not to me.”

You hope a sliver of honesty keeps you on his good side and him out of your hair. “I’m not lying. I’m here alone because I’m– we’re going through a rough patch. We decided a summer apart would do us good.”

The bite of his dissection returns, and you debate how genuine his interest is. If all his talk about the towns and apparent concern is legitimate. His nose scrunches.

“Shame. Well, should the rough patch become rougher,” He produces a business card. “And you want that coffee after all, text or call.”

You accept the card and a loud meow interrupts.

Phil looks over his shoulder, and his smile falls. Five ferals lounge on the hood and roof of the sedan. The skinny calico stands, claws extending from her paws as she stretches. 

“Fucking flea-bitten…” He mutters and swivels back. “Listen miss, considering the sensitivity of our conversations on both our parts, I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit as our little secret. Can I trust you to do that?”

The insinuation isn’t lost on you. Both our parts. It's not that you need motivation on that front; you have no plans to mention Phil to John, Kate, or anyone in town. Not with that pale brute lurking about. A twinge of worry seizes your heart—you can’t warn John, and he has no clue. “I won’t say a word.”

“Atta girl. Have a pleasant evening.” 

You think if he wore one, Phil’d tip his hat. He’d wave it at the cats, who take their time abandoning his car. You watch until he disappears around the curve of the driveway, up the hill.

Alone again, you stew.

~~

You’re as sober as the judge who marries you in the courthouse when you pledge eternity. The strangers you asked to witness the moment clap awkwardly as your new husband reels you in for a kiss, the taste of cheap champagne on his lips. The man admires your whirlwind romance, and you can’t disagree, given you didn’t have time to find a dress. The woman nervously comments about having a daughter your age and squeezes your shoulder a little too tight.

A week later, you flee the plains for the desert and spend your honeymoon camping in the truck bed.

After twenty-six hours of driving, you reach the little white house he told you about. He carries you over the threshold and insists on christening the space. He watches from the floor, wrapped in a sheet, as you scamper through the empty rooms and describe what each one will hold.

He joins you at the mouth of a small bedroom upstairs, across from the primary bedroom. 

“Dusty Jr. will sleep right here.”

You beam up at him. “If we’re lucky.”

His hand curls over your nape. “We will be.”

~~

You find John at the bottom of the hill, dressed in a fresh shirt with his hair combed. Your fretting over what to wear seems justified. 

“Don’t you look nice.”

It’s a dress he’s seen you in before, a modest dark blue number that falls below the knee. The flattery does little to soothe the buzzing under your skin, but it’s appreciated. You spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze after Phil left, feeling like a mouse batted around by a bored cat. His interrogation dredged memories you’d rather leave buried and roused questions you don’t know if you want the answers to. Your turmoil translates to a meek thank you.

John walks you to the Foxhole, pressing a hand to your mid-back all the way to the usual booth. 

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” It’s not a complete lie. John’s knees touching yours under the table is grounding, the point of contact slowly leaching your worry. “I needed that break today. Thank you.”

“Yeah? What did you get up to?”

I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit as our little secret.

For all your contemplation, you haven’t thought of how to subtly warn John about his acquaintance in a way that won’t incriminate you. And if you are wrong and it’s a misunderstanding, you don’t want to compromise what you have.

“Oh, nothing special. I finished my last book.” you smile. “I’m excited to open a library account next week.”

His eyes flit over you in an elongated pause. “Right.”

Kate drops off John’s ale minutes later, and you surprise them both by ordering a cider. John smirks as you sip.

“Thought so.”

“Thought what?”

“You don’t drink on the first date, which makes this the second.”

You hide a smile behind your glass, the coolness dampening the surge of warmth triggered by the sound of his laugh. How far you’ve come with him, it’s no small feat. With his rough edges, you’d come to know him as the type of man who’d only soften and yield with time. Someone stubborn and terse, but you’d always know where you’d stand with him. An honesty you need.

“I suppose it is.”

“Which leads me to what I wanted to discuss.” He leans on the table, forearms bracketing its width. His voice lowers to a hair above a whisper. “Last night. I know I said I can be patient and I will be, but I have questions. Things I want to clarify, because I want to know if this,” he gestures between you. “Stands a chance of going somewhere.”

It’s only fair. You’ve never rebuffed a man, at least not successfully, and with the deadline of summer’s end, of course he’d have questions.

“Okay, um, shoot.”

“Did I overstep?”

“No, not at all. I just—I haven’t done this in a long time. Been, um, close with a man.”

His cheek bulges with his tongue, working over a thought. “May I ask why? I find it hard to believe, girl as pretty as you.”

“John,” you laugh softly, admonishing him with a shake of your head. The mirth short-lived. “You’re kind. My situation is...complicated.”

“So there is a situation.” 

You stare into the pale gold of your glass, shoulders tightening. You stepped in it now. John’s done so much for you. More than Dusty did in years. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I won’t.”

You don’t deserve his earnestness.

With a deep breath, you confess. “Before I came here, I left my h-husband.” You trace the rim to avoid his gaze. “I left, um, a letter stating that I don’t want money or the house. I don’t want anything except to be left alone. I said that if he files, I won’t contest it.” You glance and sputter at the inscrutable look on John’s face. Each syllable feels heavier and more inadequate than the last. “I’m hoping he takes it as a ‘good riddance’ and proceeds without me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

You realize the irony of betting on an unreliable man. “If he doesn’t, well, every penny I make will go to a lawyer.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not once. I made it clear I wasn’t coming back. I won’t ever go back. He has no idea where I am, either.”

A silence stretches between you and through the din of the bar. Your hands fall to your lap, twisting the hem of your dress, studying him intently for some clue. His expression remains unreadable, calm in a way that makes your stomach cramp and your heartbeat climb to your throat. Each passing second amplifies the tension, the wait unbearable, until finally—

“I can see why you’d hide something like that.” John sighs. “I’m surprised, sweetheart, but I understand. I forgive you for keeping secrets.”

The knot in your stomach loosens with his absolution. You take his hand when he offers it, palm enveloping yours, commanding your undivided attention.

“I’ve learned that at times, a measure of cruelty is necessary, if meted out properly by careful hands. I assume your husband deserves your abandonment. You don’t seem the type to make decisions lightly.”

“I’m not.”

“Disloyalty seems unnatural to you too, at least, not without reason.”

“No.”

“Did he–”

“‘M I interruptin’?” 

A deep and rumbling voice nearly startles you out of your chair, hand sliding out of John’s to stop your glass from tipping. Craning your neck, you instantly break into a cold sweat.

“Simon. Didn’t see you come in.”

“Reckon you wouldn’t, with your distraction.”

The man— Simon , is more monstrous up close. His face is a roadmap of scars, twisting like roots across his jaw and over the bridge of his nose. His body eclipses the rest of the room, darkening the table with mass alone. You can’t help but stare, pulse quickening, imagining what it would take to leave marks like that on a person. You desperately hope Phil’s wrong or that his witness proves unreliable. You would not want this beast for an enemy.

You’re introduced, and to your relief, there is no handshake.

“Ran that errand.”

John reclines in his seat, arms crossing. “Any trouble?”

“None. Later?” Simon’s eyes cut to you.

“Tomorrow.”

The big man chuckles, mouth twisting into an approximation of a smile. “Right. Tomorrow. If ya need me….” Simon lumbers away, heading for a stool at the far edge corner where Kate plants a dark ale. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You snap to John, a wry grin on his face.

“Don’t worry ’bout him. Looks that way ’cause of a bad accident some years back.” He nods in Simon’s direction. “He’s harmless. He helps me with the rabbits.”

You fidget with your glass, unable to picture that behemoth handling such fragile creatures. John’s vouching puts you more at ease. “I didn’t say anything.“

He laughs and reclaims your hand. “Sweet girl, I’m only teasin’. Why don’t we get some air, hm?”

You politely jump at the chance—anything to put distance between yourself and the suspect at the bar. John leads you past a leering Simon and into the woods behind the Foxhole. A dirt path cuts toward the lake, and the moon casts a white glow on the water, providing just enough visibility. Lights from campsites and cabins dot the far side of the bay.

John slots you at his side, rubbing your arm with a callused hand. You’re content to remain silent for a few minutes to let your heart return to a steadier rhythm. John’s a solid place to rest.

“I am sorry for lying,” you finally whisper. “But I was scared.”

“You didn’t trust me, and that’s okay.” John corrects. “You learned, didn’t you? That I’m here for you?”

You nod sheepishly, tucking further into him. “I didn’t think you’d want me after you found out.”

Gently, he peels you from his side and chucks your chin. He stares down his nose with an amused glint. “Oh, I want you, sweetheart,” His other hand finds your waist. “Question is, do you want me? Do you want this?”

You haven’t wanted in a long time. You thought you’d forgotten how to, convinced yourself you didn’t want or need anything. But it’s muscle memory, surging up to kiss him, and he meets you halfway.

It’s different from the first time. It’s deliberate, borderline reverent, and encourages you to slow down. Reassuring in how it doesn’t feel like he’ll disappear or change his mind. His beard scratches your face as he gradually deepens it, his tongue sliding over your lips and over yours. You taste the citrus of his ale and tobacco in a way you don’t mind.

Breaking for air, you remind him once more. “Are you sure? I am…married.”

John’s hands flex on your waist and band reflexively in pure possession. “And it sounds like you’re decided on the future of that, depending on what your courts rule.” He touches your foreheads. “I’ve always been of the mind that marriage is a piece of paper. Something neat and tidy for some suit to file, but it interferes with what’s natural. As far as I’m concerned, you aren’t married,” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re with me. If you want to be.”

It isn’t that simple. You know it’s not. Then John kisses you again, and you wonder.

By the time you part ways at the end of the cabin’s drive, your lips are swollen and spit-slick. John stopped you no less than five times to kiss you stupid, chasing every thought of the wreck, the investigation, and Simon out of your head. Shame can’t reach you either, not through the rose-colored haze around your head.

You can tell John wants to follow you inside and share your bed, but despite all your necking, you’re not there yet.

“I am interested, I really am, but I need time.”

“We’ll move at your pace,” His fingers rub circles in your hips. “Gonna spoil you, love. You’ve been good for me, I want to return the favor.”

You huff. “Me? You’re the one who’s employed me, helped me with my car, ferry me around…”

“Easy to do, ‘cause I’m fond of you, pretty girl,” He murmurs into your cheek. “You do so much for me.”

“Like what?”

“More than you know.” He brushes his lips over your forehead, then gingerly turns you around to face the cabin, lit by the light he fixed. “Now. Off with you, ‘fore I change my mind and haul you off like a caveman.”

You laugh but dutifully say goodnight and leave him at the end of the drive. You wave from the doorway, then watch him head off. A contented sigh erupts as you flick on the light and throw the deadbolt, practically twirling into the bedroom.

It’s not until you strip off your dress that a disquieting chill creeps over you. You study the bedroom, uncertain if you’re imagining things or not. If the subtle disarray—a crooked quilt, a drawer left open an inch, your laptop further down the bed than you remember—is real or trivial. But the air feels thicker and heavier, and you can’t shake the sensation as if you’ve arrived late to your own home.

Your footsteps echo too loudly in the uneasy calm. You grab a glass of water, but you pause as you turn from the sink.

The corner of the rug in the living room is flipped. There’s a seam in the floor.

[after-witch]

(For Mahito)

"Could we go out and see the Christmas lights today?"

note: yandere, kidnapped reader, vague violence implications

--

You ask the question as casually as you feasibly can. You don't even look up from your book, or from your spot on the ground, where you're currently nestled on top of a pile of mismatched, patchwork quilts and blankets taken from here and there and dropped on the cement for you to arrange like some sort of comfort-starved underground rat.

But the casual pretense didn't appear to work.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you hear the hammock creak, and ah--when you look up, there it is.

Mahito is already leaning over the side of his hammock, upside down, current book discarded, a lopsided grin on his face and keen interest in his eyes.

"Oh? Why do you want to see them? Are Christmas lights important to you?"

Your heart speeds up, and you cover your chest with your book, stupidly, like that will hide what your sure is a pulse in your soul.

"No," you lie, turning a page. "I just thought it might be a change of pace from our usual night." You shrug, and curl up further into the blankets. "If you don't want to, it's fine. I don't really care."

"Hey!"

You hear the creaking rope again before there's the tell-tale sound of Mahito's feet hitting the ground. His voice has gone up an octave, and he draws the words out childishly as he plops himself down on your nest of blankets.

You don't look back at him, still, despite the increase in your heart rate. Despite the bead of sweat on your forehead. Despite the way your muscles tell you that you ought to be moving away.

"I didn't say I didn't want to!" He whines, before he simply plucks the book from your hands and tosses it aside, forcing you to--in slow, carefully orchestrated movements--give him your attention.

He grabs your mouth and squishes your lips together.

"Are they fun? I bet they're fun--tell me!"

Living with Mahito has given you the uncanny ability to plan ahead more than your body wants to; desperately, your mind, your muscles, everything wants to react quickly to the danger he presents. But that's the riskiest thing in the world, so you force yourself to think before you act.

"Well," you say, considering slowly, "They can be very beautiful, especially when it's dark outside. And when the weather is chilly, it gives everything the perfect winter atmosphere... like you're walking around in some fairytale or a cheesy movie. Or a snowglobe, if it happens to snow."

You shift on the blankets, propping yourself up on your elbow.

"And if you're walking downtown, there's usually other things you can do while you look at them. Window shop... oh," you don't bite back the smile, "Because everything is way too expensive, especially around Christmas. But it's nice to pretend. Or you can get hot chocolate." You lick your lips, imagining the sweet, warm liquid on your tongue. How long has it been since you've had something sweet that wasn't stolen, half-eaten, or questionably old?

"Nothing better than looking at Christmas lights on a cold night with some hot chocolate, you know? As long as you've got a cozy hat and some mittens, it's not so bad to be outside. It all adds up, I guess, to be something magical."

You're smiling, when you finish. And oh, oh, you've let yourself get too carried away. Let nostalgic make your heart beat-beat-beat too easily.

Because Mahito is staring at you with a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his face, his gaze locked firmly on your own as you realize your mistake.

His lips curl.

"Oh, pet. Your soul is humming," he whispers. His fingers grip the flesh of your side and squeeze casually, making you jerk, though there's nowhere to go.

"Will it hum like that if I take you? Or differently? Better? Worse?" He digs his fingers harsher into your side and tugs you close. His lips open again and you get the oppressive feeling of a thousand questions lingering behind them, waiting to burst out. Questions that would make you squirm, make you want to heave, make you grip your palm until it bled.

But he doesn't ask any more than that. Instead, he pecks your nose with his lips, leaving a wet splotch. "Well, I want to find out!"

And then he's off you, leaping to his feet with a giggle.

You stare up at him stupidly, feeling like your heart has been scooped out (by him, who else--who ever?) and dropped back in.

When you don't move, he grabs your wrist and yanks you unsteadily to your feet, so that you're forced to cling to his arm to avoid face-planting onto the concrete.

"I hope you don't mind stolen hot chocolate," he says, leading you on wobbly legs deeper into the sewer, where--somewhere--there is a way out. "Unless some of the clothes from my experiments have cash on them... well, let's look next time."

[plasticfangtastic]

Cozy Corner Domaystic--Prompt: 3. Grocery Shopping, 18. Snow Day, 21. Road trip (sort of)

Charred Steak

A Butchlander fic

Sypnopsis: Butcher is in charge of taking care of Homelander.

Tags: Fluff?, non-canon anything, partially-depowered Homelander, depressive, one-shot, not proof read i die like this.

word count: 1.5k words

This is the forth time he’s heard this song on the radio, one can only tolerate the same country cover before been driven insane but is better than nothing, their car only had an old stereo and he rather not drive in silence with this company, they’ve arrived to their cabin and found it more than just barren, ordered to stay out of sight and hidden until further notice so it was just functional not comfortable but at least it'll do, the snow was piling up and the sun had begun to set-- all Butcher wanted was anything in his stomach and a drink to warm him up, then worry about tomorrow and the road.

Leaving the cargo behind he headed to the nearest town over an hour away, in normal circumstance he wouldn’t dare leave this guy alone but now he can’t go anywhere, he’s bound to the ground like any other sad sod in the world should-- or at least for the most part, but he’s not complaining he himself doesn’t want to do anything, he’s rotting away on his passenger seat or the floor, the most he’s spoken this whole drive to the middle of nowhere America had been to complain about the amount of ads on the radio then over this song.

But Butcher pays him no mind.

This drive is short compared to the last few days, the song just an annoying reminder.

The supermarket is a little small, but he can at least take a breather in aisle dillydalling as he reads the ingredients and cooking instructions, he was no gourmand much less Gordon Ramsey so he would eat anything.

Homelander much the same--he had no taste for food not eating much either, losing weight to a worrisome degree even his bosses had ordered him to feed him, so he stuffed the trolley with a decent variety of things in hopes he liked something, he ignored the ringing on his phones, too exhausted to deal with the rest of the boys after such a long drive, just wanting to get back and eat.

He picks two packs of steaks seeing which was the best deal, he should buy the cheapest chuck knowing Homelander doesn’t deserve anything but dollar store steak but he puts the T-Bone on the trolley nevertheless, he can’t really brush away the image of Homelander’s distraught, how dead he was, after all these days bound together Homelander feel more like a husk dressed and bleached than his archnemesis.

Reading his shopping list he got he milk, the hot cocoa, enough water for a month, he got the bread, butter, canned chili and beans, too many cans that at some point he’s unsure if they will eat it all, toilet paper, frozen vegs and lots of steak, he shouldn’t be buying candies... Homelander seemed to despise anything with fructose unless its coke.

But he still throws a few in there.

Butcher almost wishes the snow buries his car and leaves him stranded if that meant he can stay away from the blond.

But he makes it to the cabin, he looks up and sees no smoke.

He ran as if his life depended on it, his mind only remembers the Homelander of the past, he’s gone and he’s fucked.

The door slams open and he’s taunting the air with his gun but all there is a mess hovering a dwindling flame, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, his foot sticking out and blue.

“You’ll get hypothermia that way… don’t you know how to keep a fire going?”

Homelander doesn’t reply, his eyes yearn to light up but he’s just there immobile on the ground and if his head hadn’t move just a second prior he would had thought it was a corpse. 

Homelander doesn’t move when Butcher fixes the fireplace again, but he will pretend to not have noticed that the man squinted and smiled as the warmth enveloped him, he catchest that odd look in his eyes as he touches him to put that poor foot back inside the quilt.

Butcher does his things, putting things away wishing he would help or talk but all Homelander wants to do is sit by the fire like a cat.

“They said on the radio that the snow storm is only going to get worse… we will be stranded so if you want anything I didn’t get at the shops you better speak up now.”

Homelander says nothing.

“You… whatevah…”

Homelander doesn’t do anything, Butcher can fix their temporary residency for a couple days without protest.

He looks at his watch and realizes that Homelander hasn’t eaten or drank anything for hours, he looks at the man grunting as he forces himself to care for him, picking him up from the ground and finally earning a response from the man, he looks at Butcher wincing at him trying to push him away but while there is strength that doesn’t match those thin arms, he’s still weak.

Dragging him up, the man looks away from him-- he looks more angry than ashamed

“I’m gonna make dinner. Be useful and set the table.”

Homelander stood there as Butcher looks back at him and for some disturbing amount of time Homelander stood frozen, but without making a sound he floats and helps him out, he moves smoothly and quicker than most but not in a manner that seemed natural for him.

“Is that… good enough?” His voice is so dry, it hurts to listen, he nods for putting a table wasn’t rocket science– what are you making?”

Butcher grins surprised to hear the bastard wanting to chit-chat.

“Steak and veggies.” He says bluntly.

“Better than slim jims and whisky…” 

He sounds normal for a second which gets Butcher to turn around, he much rather listen to this version of him instead of the corpse tied to him.

“You got milk but no whisky… Did you forget?”

Butcher eyes light up in horror, the snow so thick outside he knows it probably not a good idea to travel anymore not at this hour.

“You did get slim jims…”

“Is better if I stay sober if am s’ppose to be stuck ‘ere with you until I get my next orders.”

Homelander smile is more somber than Butcher wants to witness-- he can tell he's bullshiting him so his hearing isn't all gone, this situation is dire but he still looks at the disheveled blonde with a bit of anxiety, his suit long gone replaced by dark coloured sweats, missing a sock and a beard that's gone from scratchy to scruffy, Homelander has been docile for the most part, Butcher becoming his nurse bathing him, washing his hair, shaving that god awful beard... he’s been comatose for weeks, waking up and being no different than a vegetable, moved from coast to coast away from Vought and their minions, Butcher has gotten uncomfortably familiar with Homelander, so when he acts alive its great but it annoys him.

It was weird for Homelander to talk or move this much these days-- Butcher almost gotten accustomed to the potato sack, he can't tell if Homelander will act out but Butcher has learned some tricks to keep him tame.

He lowers the flame letting the steak sizzle and crisp and the veggies boil without supervision for a moment, as he maneuvers around Homelander to take a pack of Werther’s candy from the pantry, Homelander watchest him closely as he rips the candy open.

“You've been a good boy. Haven't tried to run in a whole week… thought you deserved a treat”

“Twisted ankles hurt so much more than I expected it… simpler to break them… what’s the point of running if it’ll hurt afterwards... don't get me started on sore knees."

“You won’t run anymore, right?” Butcher teases Homelander, pressing the cream coloured candy in-between his fingers lifting it towards Homelander’s mouth– you’ll be a good sweet boy for daddy and stay right where I tell ya to stay, right?”

“Is not like I can leave you.” He looks out the window– is also snowing quite a bit… we both can’t leave each other either way."

“So you’ll be a good boy and behave?"

“yes, daddy” He says mockingly.

Butcher presses the creamy candy on the blond’s lip his tongue stretching and catching those calloused fingers, Butcher knows he shouldn’t get to know him more, he hates the bastard, but as the man suckles on his fingers, remembering bittersweet memories-- Homelander is so sensitive to the pain, so sensitive to everything else too... he'll do anything not to feel pain but something else.

It was wrong, it was sick but Butcher found it cathartic, more cathartic than the bruise on Homelander’s neck... now a sweet shade of olive, his mouth watered at the thought of being trapped together.

Homelander smiled crushing the candy as Butcher’s fingers escape those sharp toothers, still sharp enough to rip bone clean, he knows well... he got the stiches to remind him.

“I don’t like well-done steak.”

“Youse get what you get.”

“You don’t like well-done either.”

“Fuck.”

The snow piles up, Butcher and Homelander eat in silence, the snow piles up outside, and the two stare at their plates in awkward silence.

Butcher smiles just a tad as the man can only muster a sizzle on the meat.

“See you do like it well-done, luv.”

“Gives it some flavor… you forgot to season it.”

“Butter and salt is enough.”

“Your people colonized the whole world for spices—

“Shut up and eat your steak!”

Homelander smiles, chewing loudly as Butcher wishes he’ll go back to being silent.

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

The Boy from the Piano Shop - A Drarry fanfiction by Soliblomst on Ao3 ❤️💔

‼️NO NO STOP. EVEN IF YOU DON’T SHIP DRARRY, EVEN IF YOU’RE TOTALLY DISGUSTED BY THE SHIP, HANG ON FOR A SECOND!‼️⚠️ This book is about so much more than Harry and Draco! Imagine them as other people or something. (If you’re not interested in reading it yourself, at least reblog because I KNOW that so many people would feel so much better after reading it and I’m not even exaggerating!!! 💋)

I started reading this fic yesterday and finished this morning less than an hour after midnight. Yes, I sacrificed hours of sleep for this fanfic. I read it in the dark under my quilt. It was so, so worth it. I am not joking when I tell you that this is the best fanfic I have ever read. I have only read fanfiction for about a year, and many heartbreaking and absolutely wonderful ones, but this one is 100% the best one yet. It’s even one of the best books I have ever read, to be honest, and books I have read for many many years now.

Everyone should read this. Even if you don’t like Drarry or even know much about Drarry, you should read it, even if you don’t know Harry Potter so well. That is because this fic has so much to teach us. The book is full of life wisdoms about loss, about grief, about moving on, about battling depression, suicidal thoughts and PTSD, about regret, about life in general and how to live in the moment and how to love… it’s some of the best pieces of advice and poetry I have ever read. It taught me many things that I WILL carry with me for as long as I remember it.

It is sad, it is angsty, but only because that’s how life can be and will always be at some point. Sad. Heartbreaking. Soul-crushing, even. But the relationship that is portrayed in the book is so healthy, and yeah, of course it raised my standards so much more. Fanfics, am I right?

It’s a wholesome relationship, it’s all about taking your time and feeling safe, it’s so cute and fluffy but also realistic and, as I said, angsty. Hurt, and comfort. A good ending, not in an unrealistic way like how happy endings are often portrayed in fiction. This book is different, I tell you. It gives you a wonderful glimpse of how real life can be. And that it will all be okay. We will all be okay.

It was such an entertaining read, too! The smut was written perfectly in my liking. And the amount of angst was perfect for the story. Not too little, not too much. It was… ugrhhhzhsh I’m still speechless since yesterday when I finished reading and fell asleep in shock and feeling the best I have felt in a while.

Read it. You won’t regret it. I promise you.

If I have to rate it, it is ♾️/10! And I can assure you, the highest I have ever given a fic before is 12/10. Everyone needs to read this. I was so close to crying happy tears while reading, and I have never cried during a fic yet, even though I’m a really emotional person. This one almost got me. And I was wrecked, and I was so happy about it. I swear, this book ACTUALLY changed me and my views on life. I will never look at Drarry the same way ever again. This book is officially Drarry canon for me. I can’t describe this fic in enough words… omg… all I want is for more people to read it! I don’t know what more I can do to convince you to read it, but please please do it!

‼️Remember to check the TW,s before reading!‼️ Muah 💋

P.S If you’re not interested in reading it, please reblog for the sake of making someone’s day and life a little bit brighter!