Summary: It's Charles' birthday and as a knitter you have a sweater curse scare.
A/N: soo ... this isn't very good, but not everything has to be and i’ve been thinking about this for way too long. i started the first attempt of writing this around christmas, then valentine's day and half a year later lo and behold, i’ve actually finished something. and hopefully this eases me back into writing. also if I had a nickle for everytime i post a silly little fic about charles and knitting ... i just really wanna knit this man a sweater and socks okay.
Word Count: 1k
Warnings: Literally none, it's silly
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Sweater curse you huff to yourself as you adjust the bow on top of the dark green gift box that contained the labour of your love and dedication to your lovely boyfriend – well, love and a lotta sweat, curse words, and a tendonitis scare.
Your phone buzzes again, another message from your friend insisting that they were joking and that surely there would be no break up over a knitted sweater.
But the damage had been done. You aren’t superstitious per se, but the sweater curse is running rampant in the knitting community, and every app you open it seems there are more and more stories. Then again, the knit garment now laying neatly in the box probably had enough of your hair knit into it that, as that one post said, he will be bound to you forever.
That has got to cancel each other out right?
You shake your head as if to get these thoughts out. It’s silly, Charles isn’t going to end this relationship, a loving, dedicated one you may add, just because you decided to invest a couple months into making him a sweater for his birthday, dark blue with a rainbow trout in the middle front.
And well sure, over the course of your relationship you made him several things, a pair of gloves, a scarf, and maybe, just maybe, there was a little voice of doubt in the back of your head that had made you wait three years to knit a sweater- ugh no, stop it.
Then finally you‘re pulled out of your thoughts when the bathroom door opens and Charles’ tall figure pads across the hall, only a towel slung low on his hips, to the bedroom to get dressed for work.
You push yourself off the floor then, knees stiff and achey from spending too much time on the floor. You definitely didn’t spend half the night weaving in ends and finishing the embroiderey of the fish after you had gotten home late because you guys’ friend insisted on celebrating the birthday boy early. At least that gave the sweater the time to mostly dry from when you blocked it earlier that day.
You get on your tip toes to get that satisfying feeling of popping your ankles as you rub your bleary, tired eyes.
“I hate when you do that,” calls Charles from the other room.
“Literally how did you even hear that?”
The retort is left unanswered as you carry the box over to your tiny kitchen and place it on your even tinier kitchen table. It took up almost the entire surface next to the flowers either you or him brought home almost weekly. This week you got an extra big bouquet of spring flowers given the occasion.
You eye the arrangement for a moment, trying to measure out space for the plate of birthday cupcakes but they would have to stay on the counter.
While you get those out of the fridge you call out to Charles, wondering what’s taking him so long.
“Are you almost ready?” Your hand reaches for the singular candle that you found in your stash of birthday decorations, not glorious but it will have to do, as you listen for an answer.
“Charles?” you call again and then finally you hear the steps in the hallway, turning around plate balanced on your palm while you try to steady the candle in the chocolate butter cream with two fingers.
“Mornin’, happy birth-” the rest of the sentence fades into another, worried, almost alarmed. “oh you okay there?”
He is standing in front of you, fresh shirt on that was just the right bit too small, hair tied back into a bun, all things you would normally enjoy seeing early in the morning if it wasn’t for his sour face, maybe mixed with guilt and his hand clutching his phone.
“We need to talk-”
No, oh no no this isn’t happening.
You don’t let him finish as your brain immediately jumps to conclusions caused by all the talk of the god damn sweater curse.
“Are you breaking up with me?!” Your voice goes up an octave and you have to set the plate down lest you drop its contents.
And now the poor man looks entirely confused, the unvoiced ending of his sentence still hanging in the air. He blinks once, twice.
“… about tonight,” he finally says. “We need to talk about to- why would you think I was gonna-”
Oh thank god. You could feel the relief instantly. Good thing you didn’t overreact.
“Sweater curse,” you say simply, lamely almost, as if that explains everything.
“It’s too early for riddles,” he groans. Charles looks even more confused, a note of playful exasperation in his voice. “I just wanted to say that we have to push back our reservation an hour I need to cover for someone at work… now about this sweater curse…” he tilts his head, clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Oh…”
Wordlessly you grab his gift from the table and hold it out to him. You don’t even know how to explain this to him without sounding entirely crazy.
His eyes drop to the box and he carefully undoes the bow with the fingers you know to be incredibly gentle. He lifts the lid, one eyebrow raised as he looks up at you for a moment before he reaches for the sweater.
He holds it up, examining the even stitches—sure with the occasional twist or other little mistake—the color work, greens and pinks and grays making up the trout. And you can’t see it, view blocked by the garment, but his lips widen into a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. And when his hands lower you don’t have the time to react.
His thumb and forefinger grasp your chin and you’re pulled closer until finally his warm lips meet yours. You can still taste the toothpaste on them when he murmurs into the kiss: “You made this?”
Your head bobs in a nod, lips never disconnecting as you finally finish the words you set out to say earlier: “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, it’s incredible.” He pulls back and looks at you for a moment, his thumb gently sweeping over your skin. “That sweater curse … is it one of them TikTok myths?”
He was definitely teasing you now and you can’t help but groan but you nod.
“Yeah, knitting superstition.”
“You spend entirely too much time online, silly goose.” He grins before he pulls you into another kiss that makes you forget all about the other unlucky people whose (ex-)boyfriends couldn’t appreciate handmade knitwear.
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i hope you enjoyed this! <33
also in my mind charles is a late october/november baby but that didn’t work for this.
I think this superstition is just confirmation bias, but I always worry about it. There's a similar one about drawing people.
Immortalizing someone through so much time and effort always comes with a risk, because most people aren't permanent.
But it's best to remember that at some point, they were worth that effort.
Disclaimer!! I have not played rdr online, I am so very broke. However I did some research just for this. I hope you enjoy, @ameliathefatcat
Morning sunlight pours into the cabin's bedroom through the holes and snags in the window curtains, warming the delightfully comfortable bed where Jake Adler resides.
A clanking of metal in the main room stirs him from his sleep. Despite the rude awakening, all the man offers is a beard scratch and a nice stretch before tossing his legs over the side of the bed. His mind wanders to a time when he himself had been the first one up and awoke his wife . . .
It's safe to say she doesn't like being woken up.
Jakes wandering mind instantly clears as he steps through the doorway to see her.
A moment is taken, a soft, sweet silence. The sun shines through her dirty blonde hair, her freckles warm, and her blouse hangs just perfectly over her shoulder. Her grumpy face is on, and those beautiful shoulders are tense as she cleans her gun with her feet planted firmly.
"Miss Adler" his soft, tired voice calls in a sweet tone. It brought him nothing but joy, even now, to call her that.
Sadie's warm brown eyes flick up and through that stern, stressed face, a smile breaks. Her coy lips curl up "Mister Adler" she responds simply.
Her slender fingers set the gun down as her husband drifts closer, slipping around the back of her and pressing himself to the back of her chair.
"You didn't sleep" he says. It's not a question, and she doesn't deny it.
"How could I? With those pesky god-damned mag- . . ." her sentence comes to a halt when she feels thick fingers pressing into her tense shoulders. She groans softly but looks back over her shoulder "Jake, you're not gonna' fix all of this with a massage."
"Mhm, I know."
She knew this was it. She can't deny her husband's affections, especially not when he's like this: so tired, and-
his hands rub up her arms
-so so warm.
"You need to rest, darlin'" he hums. She stands and turns to face him. "It''s already mornin', now there is nothin', and I mean nothin' you could say to me that would make me go sleep all day and leave all the work to you." He only smiles warmly at her furrowed brows and pointed finger.
Heavy hands find their place atop her hips and her gently pulls her body to his. "Then I won't say anything."
Her eyes widen and her stubborn face appears, her bottom lip pushing up and her eyebrows knitting together. Jake can't help but find her perfect, even as she pushes at his chest, trying not to give in.
He leans down and pecks her pursed lips. She doesn't budge. He begins to pepper quick, playful kisses over her face until she relaxes a bit, and he can swoop in for a proper one.
Sadie sighs into the kiss, reluctantly relenting, and allows her hands to slide up his back, one in his messy waves, where she tugs slightly in remaining stubbornness. He breaks the kiss with a chuckle and scoops her up, to which she gives a delighted shriek, though a performative "put me down this instant."
Jake tosses Sadie onto the bed, where her lips pull back into a smile and her cheeks are finally rosy. The man crawls over to her and places a hand on either side of her head. She can only grin, throwing her arms around his neck. His head lowers to brush sweet butterfly kisses on her neck.
Sadie tugs him down with her "If i have to stay in bed, then so do you."
Now, jake isn't an arguing man, so of course he obliges.
He settles down with her, trying his best not to crush her, and holds her close, to which she buries her face in his chest. He breathes her in, content.
And after days of little to no sleep, Sadie drifts off, in the arms of her big, warm, husband.
“I know I’m not easy to love. I’m a chronic over-thinker. I overreact more than I should…And every once in a while, I might be a little insecure. But if I am in love with you, I can promise you wholeheartedly that you will be loved with so much passion and intensity that you’ll forget what life felt like before I came along. You will always be cared for and you will always have someone in your corner. Maybe I’m not the best at being loved - But I like to think I’m pretty good at loving.”
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