#wrap scarf pattern

[tutorialcrafter]

[minimewtreasures]

Knit Designers: Selena & Abbye | Wool & Pine Designs

[miodiodavinci]

well in any event today is the day i gotta go clothes shopping for my Professional Internship Outfits™ and as much as i want to remain optimistic i also foresee the fact that i might die

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

update, y'all:

my needles slipped, and i made a Friend

yeah okay it's a christmas present listen i got hit by Rona and i'm doing my last-minute best over here

pattern is "Little Avogato" by Sydney Leck, which i made start to finish today on US 2.5 needles with worsted yarn, so it's. bulletproof. but isn't he cute! he's so small!! i think i'm gonna thread a ribbon through his shell and make him an ornament!

my OTHER toxic knitting trait is ignoring gauge entirely for plushies and being pleasantly surprised by the creacher's final size when it's done

[marscardigan]

some protector

ellie williams x female!reader

main masterlist

summary: being mute wasn't easy. especially in a cruel world like this one. but meeting ellie made it easier. it made everything easier.

word count: 9.7k

BY THE TIME they arrived, everything had been reduced to ashes.

Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the screams had long since faded into silence. Half the village's population laid dead, and most of the survivors were critically wounded. Tommy and the others from Jackson had tried to offer aid, but it was futile. There was no saving what remained.

Ellie arrived at dusk, accompanied by other members of the patrol sent to assist. Her stomach churned at the sight. The village was a graveyard. The smell was unbearable; blood, char, and rot. The auburn haired girl stood just behind Tommy, her face partially hidden by the scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. Her eyes scanned the broken skyline, resting briefly on each ruin, as if trying to memorize every scar the city now wore. They were here to help—if that was even possible anymore.

Jackson's people moved between rubble and collapsed storefronts, pulling out the few who were still breathing, if they could be found. The silence was worse than the screams, it made it feel like the world had already ended.

Tommy looked over his shoulder at her.  “Ellie,” he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion, “check the perimeter. There might still be people hiding. God knows I would be.”

She nodded without a word, shouldering her backpack and tightening her grip on the rifle slung across her chest. She didn’t need to ask where. She knew how these things played out. Survivors fled to the woods if they could—out of instinct. Somewhere, anywhere, away from fire.

She passed the last burned building and moved through the tree line, her boots sinking into damp, scorched soil. The deeper she went, the quieter it became. Just wind and trees, the faint whisper of smoke following her like a ghost. Then she saw something, some odd movement, just barely. 

Ellie froze.  “Hello?” she called out softly, not too loud to startle anyone, or anything.

No answer. Just the rustle of leaves. Cautious now, she took a few steps forward, her eyes narrowing at the form ahead, curled up beside the base of a tree, almost camouflaged by dirt and blood.

That was when Ellie found you. Filthy, bruised, covered in cuts—some old, some fresh. Your clothes were torn, bloodied, and your skin had a ghostly paleness that made Ellie stomach twist. She dropped to her knees beside you, reaching out carefully with trembling fingers.

“Shit,” she breathed, kneeling. “Hey… Hey.” She gently pressed her fingers to your neck. Nothing. She pressed again, harder this time. There, a faint thrum. Weak. But it was there. Ellie exhaled in relief. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

But the moment her hand lingered a second too long, your eyes shot open. And then the screaming started. Or... at least, it should have been a scream.

Instead, your mouth opened wide, terror erupting in a voiceless shriek, body convulsing in panic. Arms flailed, and your fists struck weakly against Ellie’s jacket, lips moving rapidly in a silent scream that clawed at Ellie more than sound ever could.

“Hey, hey—no, no, no—” Ellie backed off slightly, raising her hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear, I’m—”

But you weren’t hearing her. Your mouth moved in desperate gasps, and your hands jerked in odd, frantic patterns—almost like you were trying to say something. Something important. But there were no words. You clawed backward until your body was pressed against the tree trunk, chest heaving, and tears running down your cheeks, blurring your vision. 

Ellie’s heart pounded. “Shit… okay, okay, slow down.” She lowered herself into a crouch again, moving like someone approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not gonna touch you, alright? I’m with good people. We came to help. We’re not the ones who did this.”

You were desperately shaking, head darting side to side, as if still expecting the attackers to leap from the trees. Your lips moved again, but still, no sound. Only tears now. And those trembling hands.

Ellie noticed it again. Those movements. Your fingers twitching in repeated, frantic motions. Not erratic. Repetitive. Intentional. Were you trying to speak?

“You’re—” Ellie hesitated. “You’re not talking. Are you mute?”

Your wide eyes locked with hers. Your hands stilled. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Ellie let out a slow breath, her voice gentler now. “Okay. It’s okay. I got it.”

She moved closer, keeping her body low and her hands visible. “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

You looked at her—really looked—and something shifted. You didn’t flinch when Ellie reached into her bag, pulling out a flask of water and setting it on the ground between you.

“I don’t know sign language,” Ellie admitted, her eyes never leaving yours. “But… we’ll figure something out.”

You blinked slowly, still tired. Your hands twitched once more—this time slower, more careful—but Ellie still couldn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” Ellie repeated, voice quiet and steady. “You don’t have to talk. Just… nod if you trust me, alright?” A long pause. And then, finally… a tiny, hesitant nod. Ellie smiled. “Good. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

She gently wrapped her jacket around your shoulders, ignoring the flinch that followed, then reached for her radio.

“Tommy,” she said, pressing the button. “I found someone. She’s beat up bad. Young. Alone. Looks like she’s been out here a while. Prepare a medic or two.”

“Copy,” Tommy’s voice crackled back. Ellie looked back at you, who now sat curled beneath her jacket, eyes glassy but no longer wild with panic.

She crouched beside you again, softly: “You’re safe now. I promise.” And for the first time, you didn’t recoil when Ellie reached out.

THE ROAD back to Jackson was long. Too long.

The snow had picked up again, dusting the road ahead in cold silence. Smoke still curled in the sky behind, faint against the horizon, like the town they’d found you in was still screaming. Even if no one could hear it, not anymore.

You sat bundled in the far corner of the transport vehicle, if you could call it that. It was an old military truck with benches bolted to the inside, just enough room for the wounded survivors Tommy had ordered to be brought to Jackson. Ten of them. Mostly women. A few kids. One old man who hadn’t stopped crying since they pulled him from the rubble.

They all needed help. Badly. And yet somehow, you looked like the worst of all of them. You hadn’t looked at anyone. Your hands gripped the blanket Ellie had given you like it was your lifeline, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric. Blood still crusted on your face and arms. Dirt smeared your cheeks. But every time someone tried to touch you—to help—you flinched, trembling so hard your teeth chattered, and recoiled like they were going to burn you alive.

Tommy had tried once. He’d crouched beside you, speaking gently.  “You’re alright now. You’re with us.”

But you didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Your eyes stared ahead like you weren’t even there. Like your body had made it out of that place, but your mind was still buried somewhere near the ash and the blood. Tommy stood back up, exchanging a glance with Ellie. He didn’t say a word, but the worry was clear on his face.

Ellie never left your side. Not for a second. She didn’t try to talk much. She didn’t push. She just stayed close. Always between you and everyone else. Like a silent promise that whatever had happened before—no one here was going to hurt you again. Not on her sight, at least.

The closer they got to Jackson, the more tense everyone became. The survivors were coughing. A child had developed a fever. One woman was clearly suffering from internal bleeding, her skin pale, lips cracked. They weren’t going to make it much longer without help. When the gates of Jackson came into view, Ellie finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. You didn’t even lift your head.

At the gates, Maria was already waiting. She scanned the truck as it rolled in, taking in the bloody, battered survivors. Her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“What the hell is this, Tommy?” she asked as he jumped down from the front. The man grabbed his wife’s arm gently and pulled her aside. Still, you could hear their conversation perfectly. 

“People,” Tommy said simply. “What’s left of ‘em.”

“I can see that,” Maria snapped. “But we don’t have room in the medical wing. We’ve got our own people who need care. You were supposed to be bringing back supplies.”

Tommy stepped closer, voice low but firm. “Maria. These people are dying. Kids, too. We couldn’t leave them. They need our help.”

The blonde’s jaw clenched. Her gaze flicked toward you—slumped in the corner, unmoving—and for a moment, just a moment, her expression softened.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Triage in the rec center. I’ll talk to the medics. But if anyone from Jackson dies because we couldn’t spare the meds... this is on you.”

Tommy nodded. “I can take that.”

As people started helping the survivors down from the truck, Ellie reached out gently, touching your shoulder. You didn’t flinch—not from her. Just stared down at the floor.

“She’s with me,” Ellie told Tommy, her voice lower now. “I’ll make sure she gets looked at.”

Tommy frowned, watching the way your eyes still hadn’t moved. “What’s goin’ on with her?” he asked. “She hurt or…?”

Ellie hesitated. Then she replied, “I think she’s mute.”

The word hung heavy in the air. Tommy didn’t press. He just nodded and stepped aside.

Later that day, the rec center looked more like a war zone than a gym.

Medics moved between bodies, and in the corner, on a thin mattress with a frayed blanket, you sat curled up. Ellie was nearby. Sitting in a folding chair, elbows on her knees, watching you. But you hadn’t glanced at her way. At least you stopped shivering, and you finally agreed the medics to check on you, to run a few tests.  

Still, her knee bounced. She couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so... small. Not just physically. You looked like someone who had been shrinking for years.

The door opened, and Joel walked in. Dusty from the road, beard longer than usual, with Dina trailing behind him, scarf around her neck and bow slung across her back. They both looked tired. Patrol had taken them out past the rivers this time. Almost a week gone.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, taking in the scene. “What the hell happened?”

Dina’s eyes swept across the room—until they landed on Ellie. Then you. She moved toward them quickly. “Ellie—hey. You okay?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her jaw was locked tight. Joel followed her gaze, landing on you in the corner. “She one of the survivors?”

Ellie nodded, slowly. “She was alone when we found her. Barely breathing. Beaten up, bruised.”

A medic passed by, glancing at the group. “The girl in the corner? She’s the one with the damaged vocal cords.”

Joel frowned. “What do you mean?”

The medic lowered her voice. “We ran tests. She’s not just mute—she’s been that way a long time. Her vocal cords are scarred. Chemical burns, maybe. Poison. Acid, even. Could’ve happened years ago.”

Ellie felt it all hit at once—revulsion, fury, heartbreak. The kind that rises like bile in your throat. She looked at you again, your back still turned. Your shoulders hunched. Your silence now explained, and still unbearable.

“She never had a chance,” Ellie whispered, mostly to herself. “Not even to scream for help.”

Dina stepped up, arms folded tightly. Her voice broke the silence.

“My sister taught me sign language,” she said gently. “She worked with non-verbal kids in New Mexico.” Ellie turned to her, startled. Dina gave a small nod. “I could try talking to her.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she nodded. Grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Joel stood silently, staring at you. Something heavy behind his eyes. Something haunted. “Whatever she went through,” he said, his voice low, “we make sure it ends here.”

Ellie looked at you again. You hadn’t turned. But now… maybe they were finally close enough to reach you.

THE MORNING LIGHT in Jackson was comforting. The storm had passed, but everything still felt heavy.

You sat curled in a chair near the window of the medical wing, blanket pulled around your shoulders. Someone had brought tea. It had long since gone cold on the little tray beside you.

You weren’t shivering anymore. You weren’t flinching when people walked by or whispered. You were just quiet. Still. Like the air before snowfall.

When footsteps approached, you didn’t turn.

“Hey,” Ellie’s voice came from the doorway. Softer this time. Less like she was afraid of scaring you, more like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile moment you were wrapped inside.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to see her standing there with Dina.

“Mind if we come in?” the brunette asked.

You hesitated. Then gave the smallest nod. They moved in quietly, settling on the bench near your chair. Dina took the spot closest to you, while Ellie sat beside her, leaning forward, hands between her knees.

Ellie tried first. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked. Looked down at your lap. Then, slowly—almost unsure—you raised your hands. Your fingers moved with care, like it had been a long time since someone had truly watched you speak this way.

Dina leaned in. “She’s saying... she’s better today,” she translated, glancing at Ellie. “Tired. But not scared.”

Ellie smiled, just a little. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

You watched her for a moment. Then signed again, slower this time.

“She wants to tell us something,” Dina said. Her voice dropped. “She’s going to tell us what happened.”

Ellie’s posture stiffened. She glanced at you, her chest already tightening. No survivor have had the guts to explain what happened. A man tried once, but panic overtook him before he could finish. 

You began signing. Dina translated, her voice quieter now, more careful. Like she was laying out pieces of you with every word. “She says… after her father died, she lived in that village for a few years. Alone mostly. The others… they knew she was there, but no one really asked her about it. She couldn’t talk, so they just… let her be. She fixed broken things. Helped tend the crops. People were kind enough, but it wasn’t home.”

You paused. Your face was blank, but your fingers tightened before moving again.

Dina continued. “She had a place at the edge of the houses. Close to the woods. Far enough that she could sleep without hearing people at night.” Your hands kept going. “She says one morning, a group of men came. Not infected. Just people. They looked like they’d been traveling for weeks—scarred, armed, desperate. They claimed they were traders at first. But they started asking about supplies. Ammunition. Medicine.”

Your hands stopped briefly, fingers trembling, then continued. 

“They found out the village had nothing to offer. No luxuries. Just the basics. So they�� they took what they could. Someone had hidden away rations, alcohol, painkillers—things scavenged over the years. When the men couldn’t find more, they got angry.” Dina paused, her throat tightening. “They lit the houses on fire.”

You looked away now, your shoulders hunching inward. “She tried to help. Tried to pull someone out of a burning home. But one of the men hit her—hard. Threw her against a wall. And when they noticed she couldn’t talk, they took her to the forest. The men—uh—”

Dina stopped talking. Ellie didn’t need to hear the rest of it.  You didn’t look at her, but you heard it. The room went quiet. You finally looked at Ellie. And signed, slowly: “And then you found me.” Dina translated it. But she didn’t need to. Ellie understood that one.

Ellie’s eyes met yours, and something cracked inside her. Not pain. Something warmer, something painful but… human. She didn’t say anything. She raised her hands awkwardly, fingers a little stiff. Then, slowly, clumsily, she moved them. “You. Safe.”

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But you understood it. Your throat tightened. You gave her the smallest nod.

A WEEK had passed since your arrival. 

The snow had finally started melting around the outskirts of the town, revealing muddy patches of earth where winter had gripped too tightly for too long. Ellie stood near the wooden gate, arms crossed, watching the group of survivors getting ready to leave.

The ones from the burned village were chattering quietly, packing up what they'd been given. Fresh food. Blankets. Maps. A promise of an escort back to whatever scraps of family they still had waiting. They were smiling. Everyone was grateful. Excited, even. All except you.

Ellie spotted it immediately. You were off to the side, near the stone edge of the wall, body drawn in tight, like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your arms were shaking. Your fingers twitching against your thighs. 

She took a step toward you just as Dina’s voice called from behind her, “They’re almost ready to head out. Maria’s gonna do the final check-in.”

But Ellie wasn’t listening. Her eyes hadn’t left you. You looked like you were about to vomit. Then it happened: a sharp shake of your head. Violent. Repeated. Your breath caught. You stumbled back, and then you were trembling, hands raised, desperate to sign something, anything, but your fingers were sloppy, frantic. You couldn’t get the shapes right.

Ellie was already moving. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” she said, dropping beside you.

Dina and Tommy were just behind her, closing in. Maria walked fast from the other side of the gate, frowning. Tommy crouched, reaching gently for your arm. “It’s okay, kiddo. We’re gonna get you back to your people—”

But you yanked away like his hand burned. The panic boiled over. Your eyes wide, breath sharp, and you were signing in quick bursts now, so messy even Dina had to pause before translating.

“She says—she says she doesn’t want to go back,” Dina murmured. “She says there’s nothing left fot her there. No family. No one waiting. It’s… it’s bad there. She says she can help here. That she wants to help. Please—she’s saying please over and over.”

Maria frowned. “We agreed Jackson doesn’t—”

“She can stay.” Ellie’s voice cut clean through the air.

Everyone looked at her. Maria blinked. “Ellie.”

“No, listen.” Ellie turned to her, stepping between you and the others. “She’s not sick. She can learn to help here.”

“She needs care—” Maria started, but Ellie didn’t flinch.

“—so give her care,” she said. “You did it for me. For Joel. You do it for people all the time when it’s the right thing. This is the right thing.”

Maria looked like she wanted to argue. But Tommy stepped forward, hands resting on his hips. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “Let her stay.”

Maria turned to look at you then. You were still shaking, eyes wide and full of raw, silent fear. But you weren’t signing anymore. You were just… watching. Waiting. And something in Maria’s face cracked.

She exhaled slowly. “We’ve got one unoccupied space down by the south end. It’s small, but it’s clean. I’ll clear it with the board. But this is your responsibility, Ellie. If it doesn’t work—”

“It will.”

Maria nodded, tight-lipped, and turned away.

The space wasn’t much more than a glorified shed.

An old maintenance room near the edge of the farming district, with one small window and thin walls. The mattress was clean, the oil lamp on the table was half-full, and someone had left a knitted blanket at the foot of the bed—blue with crooked stitches.

You sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

Ellie knocked once and stepped in.

“You, uh… you decent?” she joked half-heartedly.

No answer, of course. You looked at her slowly, eyes rimmed red from earlier. She walked in anyway, looking around. The room was bare. White walls. No posters. No clothes. No books. Just a silent girl and an untouched space.

“No pressure or anything,” Ellie muttered, “but this place kinda sucks.” Your mouth curled, barely. Just enough for her to notice.

Ellie reached into her jacket and pulled something out. A folded square of paper.

She handed it to you and waited while you unfolded it. A sketch— rough pencil strokes, smudged shading. A moth, wings spread wide, drawn on the corner of a windowsill.

You traced the wings gently. “I dunno,” Ellie said, fidgeting with her fingers. “Figured maybe you could put something on the walls.”

You didn’t sign anything. But you nodded. It was the first nod you’d given all day.

Ellie stayed until the sun dipped low, and the light faded into that soft blue shadow you only get in the mountains. When she stood to leave, you reached out—not to stop her, but to hand her the drawing again.

She shook her head, smiling at you. “It’s yours now.”

You didn’t smile. But when she left, you pinned the drawing to the wall above your bed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you slept through the night.

YOU WEREN’T used to peace.

At first, it made you feel anxious. Like quiet was something dangerous. But days passed, and nothing shattered. No fires. No screams. No alarms. Just the thump of boots on snow-soft ground, the whinny of horses, and the occasional dog barking across the fencing.

And people? They weren’t what you expected. No disgusted stares. No cruel whispers. No pity in their eyes. Just… quiet nods. Respectful distance. Some even smiled when you passed. They didn’t expect you to speak. They didn’t press. They just treated you like a normal human being.

It felt strange. But not bad. You kept yourself busy, anyway. Staying in your room made the silence loud again, so you found ways to fill the hours.

At the stables, you brushed and fed the horses. At the medical wing, you helped sort herbs, stitch torn blankets, organize kits. The nurses didn’t talk much, but they smiled in thanks when you caught their mistakes. You were good at reading patterns. Noticing things.

And at the storage barn, you worked beside Dina. She didn’t say much at first. Just stacked crates with you, passed you water, bumped your shoulder when you looked tired. But by the second day, she started moving her hands in a way that caught your attention.

Sign language. Half of it wrong. You raised a brow. She laughed, shrugging. Then signed: “My sister taught me, but lost practice.”

From then on, every time you worked together, she practiced. She corrected herself when she got it wrong. You teached her simple phrases that could be useful for patrols, like— “Are you okay?, help me, stay quiet, Danger.”

Sometimes, Ellie joined you both during free time and watched, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t interested. But you caught her mouthing the words. Her fingers twitching, trying to mirror yours.

Still, there were people who found odd your… limited vocabulary, to say the least. You were mute, but not deaf. The elders sometimes offered fake kindness, and a couple of teens treated you like you were a sideshow. Whispered jokes behind your back. Laughed when you turned, knowing you couldn’t call them out.

You were at the stable, finishing your chores for the day, when a group of young teenagers snuck inside. As you stepped into the storage room to grab some tools, the door slammed shut behind you. The door slammed shut behind you. At first, it was just the sound. The thud of it. Then came the click of the latch. And then, darkness.

You froze. No light. No cracks in the wood. No way to see the space around you. 

And just like that, it hit you. The woods. The smoke curling up into the treetops. The cries. The screams. The pain. Your body limp and bloody in the snow.  Now here you were again. Trapped. Powerless. Alone.

Your breath caught. You pounded your fists against the door, over and over. You wanted to scream. Your body tried to scream. But nothing came. Just air and desperation.

You crumbled against the wood, nails scratching at it like an animal. Tears blurred your vision, heart hammering. You were shaking. Falling back into yourself, into the dark part where the only thing that existed was fear.

Time slipped away. You didn't know how long you were in there. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? It didn’t matter, because it was long enough. Long enough to collapse into the floor, fear and guilt eating you alive. 

Ellie noticed you were gone the moment she got to her room.

Your notebook was still on the table. The CD player she'd brought you was untouched. The blanket folded the way you always left it when you planned to come back. Something was wrong.

She went to the medical wing first, and asked if you'd stopped by to help with the supply run. Then the town hall. Then Dina’s greenhouse. Each time, her voice got tenser, sharper.

“No, haven’t seen her.”

“She was supposed to help with the stables today, wasn’t she?”

Ellie froze. The stables. Of course. You always stayed late there. Shimmer was like your therapy, your comfort. If something had happened—

She was already running. By the time she got to the stables, the sun had dipped low, and the place was nearly empty. Most of the horses were asleep in their pens, the lights dimmed to a faint amber glow. It was quiet.

Too quiet. Ellie’s stomach dropped.

She walked past the rows of stalls, listening. Nothing. Nothing but the quiet huffs of horses and the creak of old wood. Before she could leave, she heard a sound.  Muffled. Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

And it was coming from the supply room.

Ellie rushed over, her heart now pounding in her ears. The door was closed. No light leaked from under the crack.

She pressed her ear to it. And heard a whimper. A cry. Shaky, broken. Yours.

“Shit—”

She threw herself at the door. It didn’t budge. Again. And again. On the third try, the old hinges groaned, and the door burst inward.

The sight stopped her breath.

You were huddled in the corner, back against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. Your chest was heaving. You were soaked in sweat. Your nails had blood under them. You didn’t even look up at first— just shook violently, stuck in the loop of whatever memories had come rushing in.

“Hey,” Ellie said, dropping to her knees. “Hey, hey—look at me. It’s me. I’m here.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide and full of terror. Then softened. But the tears kept falling.

You reached for her. Barely. She pulled you into her arms. She held you so tightly, you could feel her heart thudding against yours.

“You’re safe,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She stayed there with you until your breathing slowed, until the shaking lessened. Until the memory began to dissolve just a little. She didn’t let go.

Later that night, wrapped in a blanket in Ellie’s garage, you sat beside her on the old couch. Your eyes were red and tired. Your hands moved slowly, shakily.

“I thought I was back there,” you signed. “In the woods.”

Ellie nodded. “I know. I know.”

“It felt the same.”

She reached out and gently brushed your knuckles with her thumb. “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “It was not your fault.”

Ellie sighed, then moved closer. “You're here now. That’s what matters. You're safe. And I won’t ever let anyone do that to you again.”

You let her lean her forehead against yours. You exhaled softly. Your fingers moved once more.

“I was scared.”

She pulled you against her side, her arm around your shoulders.

“I was scared too,” she admitted quietly. “When I couldn’t find you. I thought—” she stopped, swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

You nodded, slowly. Then leaned your head against her shoulder.

Outside, Jackson carried on with its usual rhythm. But in that garage, all that existed was the hush of breath, the warmth of touch, and the unspoken promise that Ellie would never let you fall into the dark alone again.

She couldn’t wait to speak to those kids and show them real fear.

THE GARAGE  Ellie had turned into her room was dim and quiet that night.

Her guitar sat in the corner, dusty but cared for. A pile of comic books sat untouched next to her bed. And pinned to the wall beside her drawings was something new.

A sketch. It wasn’t finished, but it was clearly you. It was you, brushing Shimmer’s hair. A gentle expression on your face, eyes closed in focus, hair loose around your shoulders. Ellie had started it the night before, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how peaceful you looked.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“You drawin’ again?” Joel’s voice broke through the stillness.

Ellie jumped, stuffing the sketch under her pillow in one sharp motion. “Jesus—don’t sneak up like that.”

Joel chuckled, arms crossed. “I knocked,” he said. “You just didn’t answer.”

Ellie shifted, awkward. “Just… sketching. Helps me sleep sometimes.”

Joel looked around the room, taking in the quiet. He nodded toward the pillow.

“That her?”

Ellie’s face went red. “None of your business.”

He smiled, soft. Not teasing, just… knowing.

“She’s a good kid,” he said. “Saw her helpin’ over at the stables this morning. Gentle hands. Real focused.”

Ellie looked down, playing with her fingers nervously.

Joel leaned against the workbench. “Listen. I was talkin’ to Maria. Said some patrol members were askin’ about hand signals. Quiet communication. Stuff you can use when there’s infected close and you don’t wanna make a sound.”

Ellie blinked. “Like… what Dina’s teaching me?”

Joel nodded. “Exactly. She told me the new girl has been helpin’ with that.”

“She’s smart,” Ellie said quietly. “Learns fast.”

Joel gave a low hum. “Sounds familiar.” Ellie shot him a look, but he was already walking toward the door. “She keeps it up,” he said, “it might be worth havin’ her on patrol. Not now, but down the line. Could teach the others what she knows.” Before he left, he added, without turning. “You’re good with her, kid. She trusts you.”

And then he was gone. Ellie exhaled. She pulled the sketch back out from under the pillow. Then pinned it to the wall. 

IT WAS A Thursday when Ellie showed up at your door holding something behind her back. You opened it slowly, a blanket still draped around your shoulders, hair messily braided from the day before. You blinked sleep from your eyes.

Ellie grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a bomb or anything.” You tilted your head. “I brought you something,” she said, stepping inside without asking—because by now, she didn’t need to.

From behind her back, she pulled out a CD player. A real, beat-up, scratched little thing, with worn buttons and cracked volume dials. But it had a soul. And inside it, she'd already loaded the first disc.

“I figured… I dunno. You’ve probably never had time for music. Not real music, anyway. Not the stuff that doesn’t come from a panic radio signal.” You reached out, gently touching the top of it. Ellie was already kneeling, plugging in the cord to the wall, twisting the dial.

A click. A soft whirr. Then the warm crackle of static turned into music. Not loud. Just enough to fill the room. The guitar riff was old-school. Something from the seventies, maybe. You didn’t recognize the song. But Ellie was tapping her foot and mouthing along.

“Fleetwood Mac,” she said with a smirk, glancing at you. You gave a ghost of a laugh. Silent, but real. Then nodded. You liked it. Ellie watched your face carefully.

She sat down cross-legged beside the little player, then reached into her coat and pulled out three more CDs. She fanned them out on the floor like they were cards in a game.

“This one’s The Police. This one’s the Talking Heads. And this—this is my personal favorite.” She held it up proudly. “Aerosmith: Greatest Hits.” You squinted, amused. “Don’t give me that look,” Ellie muttered, clearly flustered. “I know the covers are cheesy. But it slaps, okay? You ever heard Crazy? No? Oh man, you’re in for a ride.”

You reached out slowly. You didn't sign anything, but your eyes said enough. This meant something. Ellie just smiled at you, cheeks red but eyes proud.

“Press this button to open the tray,” she explained, showing you patiently. “And this skips tracks. Here’s the volume. And if it makes that grinding noise again, just smack the side like this.” She did it and immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not that hard.”

Two days later, Ellie woke up to a soft knock on the garage door. When she opened it, no one was there.

But lying on the step was a gently folded note, creased twice, smudged in the corner where a thumb must have pressed too hard. Ellie’s heart jumped. She recognized your handwriting immediately. It was small, tidy, with the slant of someone who’d taught themselves without anyone ever correcting them. She unfolded it slowly. Inside, in careful words, was a list:

CD 1 – Fleetwood Mac: Landslide CD 2 – The Police: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic CD 3 – Talking Heads: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) CD 4 – Aerosmith: Dream On 

At the bottom, just beneath the last line, was one more word, written in smaller script: “Thank you.”

Ellie stared at the page for a long time. She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, tracing her fingers over each song like they meant something more now. Like they were your voice. Oh. Your voice. There wasn’t a day she didn’t grieve your voice. She was sure it was the best melody of all. Above from every track. Above from any music note. 

But maybe, just maybe, this was enough.  Ellie sank down into the chair near her workbench and smiled—really smiled, one of those rare, crooked things that made her freckles stand out and her nose scrunch just a little. “She likes Dream On,” she mumbled to herself.

From that day on, music became part of your language. There wasn’t a day when your small cabin wasn’t flooded with melodies from decades ago. 

Ellie would bring new CDs each week—stuff she bartered for, stuff she found on abandoned shelves, anything that might work. And every time, two or three days later, she’d find a note on her doorstep.  Your handwriting. Your picks. Sometimes you’d even underline lyrics. Other times you'd draw a little doodle beside a title—a heart, a star, a tiny sketch of Shimmer or a cassette tape.

It wasn’t long before you started leaving music playing in your room when Ellie visited. The sound would greet her before you did, like a secret message. One day, she walked in and found you swaying slightly in your chair to David Bowie, and she nearly dropped the water canister she was carrying.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” she muttered, trying not to smile too big.

And you? You just gave her a thumbs up and kept dancing.

Ellie wasn’t sure when it happened. The shift.

She’d always liked being around you. She liked the quiet, the lack of pressure. But somewhere between the notes and the signs, something deeper started to bloom. Something that made her stomach twist in weird, ridiculous knots.

She caught herself watching you more.

Not just because she was worried or curious. But because she liked the shape of your laugh, even if it was silent. She liked the way your face lit up when she remembered something you didn’t think she would—like how you always skipped track three, or how you preferred peppermint tea over chamomile.

She liked how your eyes crinkled when you teased her with hand signs, “slow down, you talk too fast.”

And she really, really liked when your fingers would brush hers while passing a note, and you didn’t pull away.

WHEN spring came, you were a completely different person.

Gone was the ghost of the girl who’d arrived trembling and blood-soaked on the edge of Jackson’s woods. The one who wouldn’t let anyone near. Who flinched from a soft touch and couldn't fall asleep without checking the windows five times.

Now, you stood taller. You looked people in the eyes.

Your hair had grown longer and shinier, often braided back with a little green ribbon Ellie found in the trading post. You’d gained weight, enough to make your clothes fit better, and your eyes look less sunken. You looked healthy. You looked present. And you looked happy. Words weren’t necessary to notice it. They never were.

By now, sign language had spread across Jackson like wildfire.

Dina had started it—volunteering to teach lessons in the evenings at the town hall for anyone who wanted to learn. What started as a curiosity quickly turned into something vital. Because once people realized how useful quiet communication could be during patrols, it was no longer just a gesture of kindness. It was about survival.

There were stories—a team who spotted a runner too close thanks to a signed warning. A pair of patrol members who navigated around a horde without making a single sound, all because they could speak with their hands.

You became the unofficial teacher, alongside Dina.

Some nights you’d stand in front of the room with a small notebook, writing down sequences and watching the crowd mimic you. Kids learned fastest—teenagers who liked how slick it felt to talk in silence. Old folks struggled with the finger speed but didn’t give up.

And Ellie? Ellie learned just for you. She still fumbled sometimes. Signed something completely wrong and ended up telling you she was a “sad fly” instead of “feeling tired.” But she always made you laugh. And the look she gave you every time she got something right? Pure gold.

It was early, the sun still low behind Jackson’s rooftops, when someone knocked gently on your door, The Cure making everything softer. You opened it to find Maria, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes kind but serious.

She waited a beat before speaking. “You’ve been doing real good around here.” You tilted your head, unsure where this was going. “You’ve been… helping. At the stables. Organizing supplies. Teaching.” She paused. “We’ve been watching. You’re steady. And smart.”

“Thing is, there’s a patrol scheduled tomorrow,” she continued. “North route. We could use someone with your skills. Think you’re ready to head out there?”

Your heart pounded. Ready? You hadn’t left the gates since the day you were brought here. You looked down, fingers twitching slightly, signing the word for yes, slow but certain.

Maria smiled softly. “We thought you might agree to that.”

Ellie was the first one to volunteer. The only one, really. The next morning, you stood by the gate—nervous but prepared. Bow slung over your back. Hands steady.

She grinned when she saw you. “Got your game face on, huh?”

You signed “fuck off,” and she burst out laughing.

“You’re too good at that, it’s not fair.”

You rode side by side out into the woods. The snow had mostly melted. Green was returning to the world, shy and slow. Birds chirped above you, and the air had that damp, earthy smell of thawed soil and new beginnings.

Ellie showed you how to spot tracks, how to tell the difference between deer and runners, where to look for broken branches and disturbed dirt. You, on the other hand, taught her how to signal danger in complete silence, how to hold up a closed fist to stop, how to sign clicker or infected or hide in seconds.

You worked like you'd been doing this together for years.

And when a pair of clickers stumbled too close to a creek where you rested, you didn’t panic. You touched Ellie’s shoulder and signed two, right, close— and she nodded instantly, pulling her knife free. It was very effective, to say the least.

That patrol became two. Then four. Then a dozen. You and Ellie became a team. Every time your name was on the board, so was hers.

The rhythm of riding out, scouting, signing small jokes, and sharing your rations. Watching the sun rise over misty hills. Sitting in watchtowers with your boots kicked up and her shoulder brushing yours.

Sometimes you caught her staring. Sometimes she caught you doing the same. Neither of you said a word about it. But everyone else could see it.

IT HAD STARTED like any other patrol. 

The clouds were heavy that morning, hanging low and gray over the mountain ridge. You rode out alongside Jesse and another scout, Cal, toward the outskirts of an abandoned rail line two hours away from Jackson. You were tracking a runner sighting someone had reported near the water tanks.

Ellie was on a separate route that day. She’d offered to switch with Jesse when she saw your name on the roster, but Maria insisted she stay on her scheduled path to cover more ground. You kissed her knuckles before separating at the gates, your silent way of saying, be safe.

She signed back, “always.”

You felt something wrong about five minutes before it happened. 

Cal had to take a break a few minutes ago, staying by the station, leaving you alone with the other man. Jesse walked ahead, scanning, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You stayed back, close to the train tracks, half-swallowed by grass. You were just signing to Jesse that you thought something was off when a gunshot cracked through the trees. Then pain. The next few seconds blurred into chaos.

You hit the ground, hard. Your ears rang. Two masked men came out of nowhere—one of them slammed Jesse’s head into the ground with the butt of a rifle. You tried to pull your knife, but a boot pinned your wrist to the mud.

They weren’t infected. They weren’t raiders looking for supplies. They were looking for you. Sudden flashbacks of that one night came running through your mind as more hands grabbed your arms. You kicked and thrashed, but they hit hard and fast, knocking the wind out of you. You reached for your belt, trying to scream for help. But nothing came out.

Just air and silence. Your throat pulsed, desperate and useless.

They laughed when they realized you couldn’t scream. One of them leaned down close, breathing in your face. “That’s new. Ain’t that something?” He shoved your face into the mud. “Try to scream. Come on. Do it.”

You gasped, silent, your body wracked with panic.

They started to beat you then. Not enough to kill you, but almost. One of them held your arms while the other kicked your ribs, again and again and again. Another hit your face with a rifle stock, splitting your lip, knocking your head sideways.

“Let’s see what sounds she makes when we break her.”

You couldn’t scream. So they kept going.

By the time they dragged you into an old barn nearby, Jesse was still unconscious, and you were barely breathing. Where the hell was Cal? Did they got them too? Blood trickled down your jaw and pooled in your shirt. You tried to sign for help, your hands shaking uncontrollably. The tall man laughed and tied your wrists.

And that’s when they brought Ellie in.

Tied. Kicking. Bloody from a fight of her own.

Her eyes met yours across the barn, and she screamed.

“NO! No, no— DON’T YOU DARE TO TOUCH HER!”

They slammed her into a beam and tied her arms above her head. One man punched her gut hard enough to make her gasp, but Ellie barely flinched. Her eyes were locked on you, face contorted in pure rage. 

“What the fuck did she ever do to you?! HUH?! You cowards!”

“Leave her alone!" Ellie shouted. "She didn’t do anything!”

They laughed. One of them stepped close to you. He grabbed your face, turning it side to side. When they saw how Ellie screamed for you, cried for you, they smiled. That was the fuel they wanted.

They pulled you forward again, cut your shirt open, and shoved you to the floor. Ellie thrashed wildly in her restraints.

“Stop it! STOP—PLEASE!”

“STOP! YOU FUCKING COWARDS!”

You couldn’t scream. You could only gasp, your body shaking violently, your lungs burning as you tried and failed to make a sound.

And when they got tired of you, they started hurting her.

One of them stabbed her leg. She howled in agony. Another one broke a rib with the heel of his boot. You could hear the sickening snap. And you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t save her.

Until something inside you twisted. The man pinning you laughed as Ellie cried your name. Something feral surged through your chest. You watched as his arm pressed roughly on your throat. And you bit it down. Hard.

So hard, you tasted blood and tendon.

He screamed and tried to jerk away, but you didn’t let go. You bit through him until he fell back, blood pouring down your chin. You grabbed the knife he dropped in panic, and before the others could react, you plunged it into his neck. Once. Twice. A third time. Screaming silently, stabbing again and again, the blade punching through soft flesh and cartilage.

You acted fast. One of the others lunged toward Ellie. He had no time to react. You tackled him and drove the blade into his chest, over and over, until your hands were slick with red, and his body stopped moving.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until Ellie—barely conscious, bleeding out—whispered your name. “Hey. Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

Your hands trembled as she reached for you.

Her fingers were slick with blood— her own. You dropped the knife, gasping in silence, eyes darting across her wounds.

“Blood. Blood.” You signed frantically. “Blood. You. Blood. Bad.”

Ellie reached up, her touch featherlight.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. You saved me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Her voice cracked with emotion as she whispered, “We’re okay. You did good. You did so good.”

You curled into her, hands clutching her jacket like a lifeline, heart pounding against hers. Ellie, still bleeding, still aching, pulled you closer like she could protect you from everything.

You sobbed without sound. And she held you until the others found you both.

THE RIDE back to Jackson was a blur.

You didn’t remember mounting the horse. You didn’t remember Cal helping Ellie stay upright in the saddle, or Jesse—bruised but alive—riding close behind.

You didn’t remember the whispers. Or the way people gasped when they saw the blood all over you, sticky and dried in layers.

You kept your eyes on Ellie the whole way. Her head leaned against your shoulder, barely conscious, breath hitching with every step the horse took.

You’d already cleaned the blade before anyone found you. You didn’t know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe shame. Maybe you didn’t want her to see how much you enjoyed it— how much of yourself you'd left in that abandoned building.

They took Ellie straight to the med bay.

You refused to let go of her hand. Even as Maria shouted for you to step aside. Even when they pulled back her jacket and revealed the cuts, the bruises, the deep gash along her thigh. You stayed. Not a single nurse tried to fight you on it.

You sat beside her as they stitched her up, cleaned the wounds, reset the cracked rib. She didn’t flinch once. She kept watching you the whole time, her green eyes tracing the dried blood on your cheeks, the tremble in your fingertips.

“...You okay?” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. But you weren’t.

Later that night, when the sun dipped behind the mountains and Jackson returned to its soft yellow haze of warm lights and guarded walls, Ellie knocked at your door.

She looked tired. Wrapped in a blanket. Her face was pale, the bruises starting to darken. A strip of gauze around her arm, another across her ribs. But she was walking.

And she was alone. “I can’t sleep,” she said quietly. “Wanna come to mine?”

You nodded and followed. The garage was dimly lit, smelling faintly of old leather, music, and a little bit of her. Posters lined the walls, drawings pinned in uneven rows. 

You’d been here before—but never like this. You sat cross-legged on her mattress, across from her. Hands tucked in your lap, still trembling a little.

The silence stretched long. But it didn’t hurt. You watched the way she stared at her hands. The gauze on her fingers. The small cuts beneath her chin. The melody of Take On Me was caressing the walls of the garage. Ellie knew how much you loved that song. 

You smiled sadly. Then your hands moved. “I’m sorry.” Again. “I’m sorry.” Your signs were shaking. Urgent. Repeating. Over and over.

Ellie moved to sit beside you. Close enough to touch. She placed a hand gently over yours. “Stop,” she said, softly. “I’m not sorry. Not for what you did. Not for any of it.”

Your breath caught. You looked at her. Her fingers trembled as she raised her hands.

She signed—slowly, carefully, but certain. “I love you.”

No stutter. No mistake. The motion was clear. Firm. Honest.

Your lips parted. Not for sound. Just for breath. You stared at her, eyes wide. And then, you smiled. For the first time since the barn, a full, real smile. And you leaned forward. Ellie met you halfway.

Her lips were warm, soft, trembling against yours.

She tasted like peppermint and tea, and the metal tang of healing wounds. Her hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing the bruise on your cheek. She was careful with you, and you were careful with her.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

You nodded, and your fingers rose again. “Me neither.”

A FEW WEEKS had passed since the attack.

Your injuries had healed for the most part. The bruises faded, the cuts scabbed and softened to scars. But the ache lingered. Neither of you spoke about it anymore. Not in words. Not in signs. But you both knew. You always did.

Ellie had promised you one thing the night she kissed you, forehead to forehead in the garage: that someday, she’d take you somewhere no one else knew about. Somewhere quiet. Safe. Yours.

And one morning, when the sun broke through the trees in soft shafts and the air smelled like early spring grass, she showed up at your door with a half-smile and a bag over her shoulder.

“Come with me,” she signed.

And you did.

It was a three-hour hike outside the west perimeter of Jackson. Off patrol routes, through pine forest and over mossy, half-rotted logs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got. Just birds and your boots and the sound of Ellie humming under her breath, almost unconsciously.

By the time you reached the lake, your chest ached with how beautiful it was.

It wasn’t large, but the water was glass-clear and edged by smooth, sun-warmed rocks. Pines framed it like watchful giants. A single wooden dock jutted out near one edge, old and mossy but still solid.

You smiled, wide and open, and turned to Ellie in a flash of excitement.

She was already looking at you, grinning.

“Told you it was worth it,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

You nodded, signing, “Beautiful.”

Ellie shrugged, bashful. “Yeah. You are.” You blinked, and she coughed. “I-I mean—yeah, it’s beautiful. It. The lake. Shut up.”

She scratched the back of her neck, trying not to look at you directly as you began to pull your jacket off. You stripped down to your underwear slowly, mostly because the sun felt good on your skin and your bruises no longer hurt. Your scars caught the light, silvered now. You stood barefoot at the edge of the lake and glanced back.

Ellie was very visibly trying not to stare. Her face was beet red. You smirked at her.

“Come on,” you signed, beckoning her.

She cleared her throat and peeled off her flannel, boots, and jeans until she was in her tank top and boxers. When she joined you at the water’s edge, she couldn’t meet your eyes.

Then you both dove in, gasping at first, then laughing breathlessly, flailing for a moment before adjusting. You swam circles around her, light and weightless in the water, while Ellie trod with a smile so big it almost looked painful.

You splashed her. She splashed back harder. You dove under and tugged at her ankle. She yelped and nearly went under, laughing.

It was like time slowed down. The world, so often filled with tension and noise and pain, had simply fallen silent. The only sounds were water ripples, quiet laughter, the distant call of birds.

At one point, you floated on your back beside her, arms out like wings.

Ellie watched you, eyes soft. The cut across her nose had faded, but her lip still had a tiny scar where the stitches had been. 

You signed to her lazily, hands moving across the water’s surface. “So pretty.”

She blinked. And then she realized you meant her.

Her cheeks flushed deep red, like the sun had suddenly turned up just for her.

“Oh,” she muttered, blinking fast. “Um. You too. I mean—not that you didn’t already know that. You’re, like—yeah. You’re a lot.”

Later, you both climbed out of the lake, dripping and shivering but grinning. Ellie laid out her flannel and you both sprawled on it in the sun, half-dried, steam rising from your clothes.

Your hair was damp and tangled. Her arm was loosely draped over your thigh, fingertips idly tracing the old scar above your knee. You were still. Safe.

You’d been practicing something all week in your cabin, when you arrived at night after doing your daily chores. Ellie had shown you a few times, patiently, her fingers in her mouth, her whistle sharp and clear.

It had taken days to figure it out. You couldn’t hum or sing or shout. But this—this was yours. So, you puckered your lips and whistled. A little shaky at first. But then steady. A tune Ellie liked—one she’d played on her guitar months ago. Future Days.

She froze, and looked up at you.

You kept going. The little melody warbling gently into the air.

Ellie stared, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. She leaned up on one elbow, and her hand stayed on your leg.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You are the best.” You tilted your head, a questioning smile. She just shook hers. “You don’t even know, do you?”

You shrugged playfully. She leaned in and kissed your shoulder. Then your cheek, and finally your chapped lips. Then rested her head just below your collarbone, eyes closed.

“Stay here a while longer,” she murmured.

You wrapped an arm around her. Fingers tangled in her damp hair.

The sun was warm. The water glinted. And for the first time in what felt like years, the world didn’t feel cruel. 

Before the sun set, you were already packing to go back home. Ellie was checking Shimmer when you nervously opened your bag. Inside was a folded-up piece of paper. You chewed your lip and stared at it for a second before finally walking over and nudging Ellie’s shoulder gently. She turned, and you held the drawing out with both hands. Immediately shy.

Ellie sat up straighter. “What’s that?”

You didn’t sign. Just pushed it gently into her hands, already starting to blush.

She unfolded the page slowly, and her eyes widened the moment she saw it.

It was her. A little smudgy in some areas, sure. Maybe the proportions weren’t perfect; her jaw was a bit too square, her nose slightly off-center,  but it was her. Sitting under a tree with her guitar in her lap. Her brows furrowed in focus. Hair curling beneath her ears. A little crease at the corner of her lips like she was about to smile.

She stared at it longer than she probably realized.

When she looked up again, you were biting the inside of your cheek, shoulders hunched slightly, like you were bracing for her to laugh.

Instead, Ellie smiled. Soft. Real. Almost awed.

“Are you serious?” she said. “You drew this?” You nodded, sheepish. Ellie looked back down at it. “Holy shit. This is awesome. Like— actually awesome.”

“You're just being nice.”

She looked up, scandalized. “I am not just being nice!”

You signed with a playful grin.  “Says the girl who draws like a professional comic book artist.”

Ellie huffed. “Okay, rude. Yours is just… different. It’s good. Like, warm, you know?” You tilted your head. “Like,” she continued, waving the paper, “you didn’t just draw me. You got the way I sit. That stupid thing I do with my fingers when I’m thinking.”

You lifted your brows. “Stupid?”

She gave you a look. “Yeah, you know, the thing where I— okay, you’re making that face again. Stop!”

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking.  She carefully placed the drawing in her pocket, smoothing the edges.

After a few moments of quiet, you signed again. “You’re my favorite thing to draw.”

Ellie’s ears turned red. She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, shyly, “...Will you show me more sometime?”

You looked up at her with a small nod. Ellie leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“I wanna hang that one up,” she whispered. “Right next to our music notes.”

“You’re such a loser”

“Yeah.” She signed back, now more smoothly. “Just for you, baby.”

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[chariaki]

Winter Love.

Husband!Nanami Kento who only wears a glove on one hand, leaving his other hand bare because he loves to bask in the feeling of his fingers holding your bare hands.

Husband!Kento who tucks both your hands inside the pocket of his coat and gently rubs his fingers on yours.

Husband!Kento who always ties your scarf on your neck in a cute ribbon for you, then holds your face in his big hands, squishes your cheeks while kissing you nose, then to your lips.

Husband!Kento who happily rolls big snowballs for you, collects sticks, rocks and loves building snowmen, snowcats, snowdogs with you.

Husband!Kento who had a hearty laugh when you showed him a snowman you built and you said it was him. The said snowman you built had biceps, triceps, abs, a chiseled face, Kento's necktie wrapped around the snowman's neck, and for a finishing touch, you even added (sun)glasses.

Husband!Kento who keeps you warm in bed by spooning you. His big body effortlessly engulfing the whole of you. His head breathing in your nape, his arms hugging your waist, hands rubbing your tummy and groping you breasts. He has leg hovered on top of yours, you can easily feel him on your lower back.

Husband!Kento who sleeps so well when he hugs you like that, he can't help but get a hard-on with how soft and complying you were to him.

Husband!Kento who joins a knitting club to make you a cute and comfy sweater, unaware that it would be filled with doting mothers who ask about everything about him and you.

Husband!Kento who proudly tells flexes you to them. How beautiful, kind, soft, sweet, smart and beautiful you truly are.

Husband!Kento who easily bonds well with those moms and made a lot of progress with your sweater, because the moms insisted on helping, all excited to see you surprised by your sweet and hardworking husband.

Husband!Kento who of course, hand wraps your sweater in your favorite pattern wrapped with a cute big bow of your favorite colour. Inside the sweater contained a letter in long paragraphs about how much he adores you, loves you, cherishes you and is grateful for you.

Husband!Kento who decorated his letter with a lot of hand drawn hearts!!!

Husband!Kento who sprays his perfume on your sweater.

Husband!Kento who happily reports to his mom friends how happy you were about his gifts, and thanked them by inviting to grab food with them to officially meet you!!!!

[wldflwrwmn]

Atlas Triangle Scarf

This pattern is available for C$2.25 CAD buy it now

Other yarns may be used, hook size will need to be adjusted to accommodate. (e.g. go a full mm up - from 6mm to 7mm)

Larger, thicker yarns will produce a larger wrap

Smaller, thinner yarns will produce a thinner, shorter wrap

You may want to use a stitch marker in the centre of the scarf to remind yourself of where the middle is.

[tutorialcrafter]

[boyfhee]

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爱,⠀⠀⠀for.⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀enhypen : fluff, skinship, petnamesㅤ. . .ㅤ❛ 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗞𝟰��𝗢𝗥𝗘　❜

HEESEUNG flaunts a prideful grin at the reddish-purple marks on your skin, trailing soft patterns over them with his fingers— he feels you shiver in his arms, eyes closed, leaning into his touch. and he is not halfway done, easily pinning you down on the bed. “right here?” he presses your pulse point with his finger and tilts your head to the side, getting a better access to your neck as he indulges into a few kisses. you gasp, he grins, sucking on your skin, his teeth grazing slightly, nibbles and bites— an elaborate scheme to make you weak in the knees. he pulls back to see your shy expression, one that really satisfies his ego. he chuckles, taking your earlobe between his teeth, tugging on it gently and whispering, “all mine,”

JONGSEONG can never get tired of waking up to the sight of you wrapped in his sheets. a smile forms on his lips and he leans down to plan feathery kisses along your arm, then shoulders, falling in love all over again. he feels a little bad for stirring you awake, but jt’s not his fault he can barely go a second without hearing your voice. with a gentle smile, he pulls you close when you turn towards him, and his eyes fall of the purple marks on your shoulder, a stark reminder of the previous night. he kisses your hickies slowly, each press of his lips an apology and gratitude. “sorry, baby, those must have hurt,”

JAEYUN visibly sulks at the sight of you trying to hide those hickies, concealer and all, even having a scarf on the side in case. “i worked hard on those, y’know?” he walks up to you and takes the blending puff from your hands, cupping your face. “not fair,” he mutters, hiding his face at the junction between your neck and your shoulder. and your boyfriend has a knack for being sneaky, because you’re kissing his forehead and he’s nibbling over your shoulder, pulling you flush against himself when he feels you trying to pull away. he soothes the bruise with his tongue, sealing it with a peck before looking up at you. “sorry, babe, can’t hold back when you’re looking so pretty,”

SUNGHOON is a little hesitant the first time— he doesn’t want to do anything that would hurt you. although, having you on his lap, wearing his shirt, is really testing his restraints. you’re addicting as always, your kisses having an effect no less than alcohol as he drowns in them. he tugs you closer by your waist, kissing you slow and sweet, deep, just enough to draw a whine from your lips when he ghost your lips and plants open mouth kisses on your neck. it drives him crazy how you tilt your head to give him a better access, and how your nails are digging in his shoulders, the soft moan that escapes your lips when he nips right above your collarbone, marvelling at the sight of the love bite. “was that okay?”

SUNOO plays innocent, as if he did not plan to leave that mark— he did. there’s a proud grin on his lips despite the frown that has settled on yours. he knows it’s a tricky spot, one that makes it harder to hide. his lips land on your shoulder again, lacing the skin with soothing kisses, slowly moving up all the way to your jaw. it’s like a taunting game, really, because you feel him suck on the skin under your jaw, making you gasp, and he pulls back with a cheeky grin. “oops,” he shrugs, as if he did not intentionally leave yet another hickey, this time under your jaw. “that one’s going to stay for a while,”

JUNGWON is in trance. you look ever so angelic under the warm, golden lights of the kitchen. he has been admiring from afar, watching you be adorably focused while arranging the flowers in the vase. although, his legs take him to you as if they have grown a mind of their own, one hand wrapping around you from behind. you definitely say something, although your words fall deaf to his ears. with a soft caress, he pushes your hair aside, pressing gentle kisses down your nape, feeling himself melt in you while you lean into his touch. without warning, he sinks in, teeth grazing over your skin. “stay still,” a slight nip, a hint of pain and pleasure, and then he soothes the spot with his tongue before nuzzling his face in your neck. “just wanted to do that,”

NI-KI watches in amusement as you shy away at the sight of small love bites along your neck— barely noticeable, but they’re still there. there’s a hint of surprise in your eyes. you didn’t know this was what he was up to when he wanted to cuddle for a very, very long time. “they look pretty on you, darling,” he smiles against your skin, kissing every single love bite tenderly as if reliving every moment. he relishes in the sound of your giggles, knowing you’re ticklish. he turns you around, caging you between his arms, against the bathroom sink. “next time, i’ll make sure they’re more noticeable,”

caelinotes — not my best work sigh .. hope you guys enjoyed reading this nonetheless ><

[thecrochetcrowd]

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[plutotheplum]

chapter four | the chariot

caleb x fem!reader

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving.” Caleb stalks towards you, his fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your head up. “You’re not leaving until you’re fucked full of my cum.” He dips his head, the tip of his nose grazing yours. “Understand, sweetheart?”

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, modern au, smut, fluff, kissing, oral sex, p in v, breeding kink, praise kink, unprotected sex, biting, bondage, vaginal fingering, handjob, dog tags, inappropriate photos, confessions

wc: 6.9k

a/n: this turned out to have a little more romance than i was expecting to write but i hope you enjoy! caleb is just soooo 🫦

also on ao3!

series masterlist | next up: the emperor

“Why are you wearing a scarf?”

You clear your throat, fingers tapping against the side of your glass of juice agitatedly. 

“It’s quite cold, isn’t it?” you supply lamely, fingers itching to reach up and tug the scarf tighter around your neck, desperately hoping that Caleb hadn’t taken notice of the marks that were now in full bloom.

“Cold?” he echoes, raising his brows. “We’re in the middle of spring. Are you feeling sick?”

You hardly hear his question because you’re too busy trying to tilt your head in a way that doesn’t look too suspicious. The stupid fabric was beginning to itch, and it was driving you crazy.

Xavier had offered to help when he’d found you in his kitchen in the morning, desperately twirling a whisk against your neck. It had hardly helped. You would’ve opted for a turtleneck, but there was a certain lack of them in your closet. Instead, you’d rummaged around, managing to fish out an oddly-patterned scarf from the depths.

“C’mon, are you sick?” Caleb prods, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, the couch dipping under both your weights as you shift.

“No,” you mumble, silently wishing that this wasn’t happening right now. All you can manage is a pitiful excuse. “I just happen to really like scarves, Caleb.”

“Well, it looks ridiculous,” he says drily, nuzzling into your cheek. “You gonna take it off anytime soon?”

“It’s chic,” you correct, trying to squirm away from him. “And no, I’m still cold.”

Caleb huffs out a laugh, his lips pressing against your cheek fondly. You bite your lip when he picks you up, situating you on his lap, his chest warm against your back. Normally, it’d feel nice if you weren’t currently overheating and overwhelmed. 

You stiffen when Caleb rests his chin on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you closer. His lips drag across your jaw in a fleeting kiss and you can feel your eyes sliding shut, lulled into a state of comfort by his thumbs gently rubbing circles into your stomach through your dress.

Out of everyone, Caleb was the one you’d known the longest. You’d grown up together, until he’d moved away for a couple of years before coming back, his demeanor a little more intense than you’d remembered. You still weren’t sure of the reason, but Caleb had gotten sterner over the years, less willing to let you go.

He’d been your first kiss back then, your lips clumsy and inexperienced when he’d kissed you and shy, fleeting glances exchanged between you when he’d walked you home, his hand grasping yours firmly.

You’d never quite gotten the chance to explore the possibility of something more… serious with him, not when Caleb was joining the military soon after. You’d hardly even seen him around until the past few months, his schedule freeing up while he awaited deployment. 

“I missed you,” Caleb murmurs, his nose nudging against the side of your head.

“I missed you too,” you mumble, playing with his fingers, your palm pressing against his a few moments later, hands locking together.

He smiles, and you hum when he squeezes your hand, wiggling on his lap happily. Caleb lets out a low noise, one his hands curling over your hip to stop you.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re no fun.”

Caleb huffs out a breath, his face pressing into your neck with the intention of mouthing across your skin. He lets out an irritated noise when he’s met with a faceful of your woolly scarf, letting out an exasperated breath.

“Please take the damn thing off.”

“Can’t,” you reply, feigning innocence, “it’s too cold.”

Caleb narrows his eyes. “I can warm you up.”

You shake your head, jerking out of his grasp when he tries to tug your scarf free from around your neck. You’re at your wits end, squeaking when Caleb tries to lunge for you again.

“I want to have sex with the scarf on, Caleb!”

“Is that a new kink?” he laughs, his eyes lighting up, “c’mon baby, you gotta take it off.”

You squeal when he manages to catch you, your little dance around his coffee table coming to an end when he pulls you into his chest, his arms firm and unrelenting, preventing your escape.

“S- stop!” you yelp, trying to squirm out of his arms, shrieking when he hooks his fingers into the gap between your scarf and neck, pulling it free. “Caleb!”

Caleb catches your hand when you try to cover up your neck, his expression dropping when he sees the extent of damage Xavier had laid to your skin. You stare up at him, swallowing nervously, fingers itching at your side, desperately wanting to snatch the scarf back from him.

“What,” he sucks in a shaky breath, “what the fuck is that?”

“N- nothing!” you protest, trying to turn your back to him. “It’s- it’s probably just an allergic reaction to my scarf!” You manage to twist yourself, hand shooting out to grab your scarf, pretending to give the little tag a once-over. “Mhm, yep, definitely an allergic reaction. I- I am, in fact, allergic to wool.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Caleb scoffs, “I know you aren’t allergic to anything.”

“It happens with age,” you lie through your teeth, “ever heard of dermatitis?”

Caleb stares at you blankly, shaking his head incredulously after a moment. “You’ve been spending too much time with Zayne,” he mutters. You watch uneasily as he balls his hands up into fists before he unclenches them, his fingers spreading out in a strained gesture. “Who did it?”

“Xavier,” you mumble, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m going to missile strike his apartment.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t so on edge. “You can’t do that,” you reply exasperatedly, “I live in the same apartment complex, remember? Besides, wouldn’t that be like a crime?”

“That is a crime,” Caleb snaps, pointing at your neck accusingly, “I mean what the fuck did you do with him? He’s practically tried to devour you whole.”

You flush when you remember what you had done with Xavier. The teasing, the feeling of his mouth on your tits, you’d enjoyed it.

Caleb glares at you when he sees the faraway look in your eyes, his arms crossing over his chest. “You don’t have to look so satisfied.”

“Well, he did satisfy me,” you mutter under your breath, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

Caleb scrubs a hand over his face before running his fingers through his hair. His jaw clenches as he stares down at you, gaze fixated on the discolored splotches that cover your neck. There’s an uncomfortable tension in the air and you wring your hands together, averting your gaze from his.

“I can leave,” you offer quietly, “if that’s what you w-”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving.” Caleb stalks towards you, his fingers sliding under your chin, tilting your head up. “You’re not leaving until you’re fucked full of my cum.” He dips his head, the tip of his nose grazing yours. “Understand, sweetheart?”

“What?” you ask breathlessly, somehow pinned in place by his darkened gaze and stern expression, holding none of the playful humor that you were accustomed to.

“You’re not leaving my apartment until I fuck you full of my cum,” Caleb repeats, tightening his grip on you. “Do you understand?”

“Well, I-” you sputter, cheeks hot, struggling to comprehend his words. 

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, spinning you around, his palm warm against your stomach. You bite back a whimper when he caresses your stomach, his hand pressing down firmly when you turn your head, eyes fluttering shut.

Caleb keeps his hand there, fingers splaying out, trying to encompass every inch of you that he can. His nose nudges against the side of your head, his breath hot against your skin. “Cat got your tongue, hm? You can go and sleep with those two pieces of shit but you can’t answer a simple question, huh?”

“Xavier’s not a piece of shit,” you shoot back agitatedly, eyes opening to send him an irritated look. “And neither is Rafayel. Grow up, Caleb.”

“I was right here,” he hisses, glaring down at you. “I was right fucking here and you decided you wanted to fuck four other men to have a fucking baby.”

“Yes, I did,” you retort sharply, turning in his arms, your finger pressing into his chest harshly. “If you can’t handle that, then maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

Caleb’s eyes flash with anger, his grip on you loosening when you take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I agreed first,” he snaps, “or did you forget about that little detail?”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” you say exasperatedly, throwing your arms up. “I’m here, in your fucking apartment, Caleb! And yes,” you snap harshly, blinded by your irritation, not quite paying attention to the words slipping out of your mouth, “I want to be fucked full of your cum!”

Caleb’s expression falters when he hears the latter part of your outburst, his eyes widening. Your chest heaves, a frustrated sound leaving you when you realize what you’ve said. You may as well have grabbed a shovel and started looking for a plot of land to bury yourself in.

Instead, you send him a glare that you hope is venomous enough, shoving past him to save face, storming into his bedroom.

“Hey, what are you-” Caleb begins, trailing after you awkwardly, his movements unsure. 

Still fuming, you unzip your dress, flinging the fabric at his stupidly handsome face, irritated by his bewildered expression. Caleb’s face disappears for a moment while he sputters, managing to ball your dress up before you throw your bra and panties in his face too. His cheeks flush at the sight of your panties, his fingers clenching around the lace.

“I’m ready,” you announce, well aware of the marks Xavier had left on your breasts and a few more that were hidden between your thighs. You gesture towards yourself. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Fuck me.”

“Uh-” Caleb clears his throat, taken aback by your sudden burst of determination, “maybe you should… calm down first?”

“You think I should calm down?” you retort sharply, “you’re the one that was throwing a temper tantrum!”

“For good reason!” he protests, setting your clothes down on top of his dresser before stepping towards you. “All someone needs to do is take one look at your neck and they’d understand where I’m coming from.”

“You started it with Xavier,” you hiss, finger prodding into his chest once again, “if you hadn’t riled him up, then maybe he wouldn’t have done this.” You gesture towards your neck agitatedly.

“Clearly it’s not just your neck, is it?” Caleb murmurs, his hand sliding up over your waist, his warm, calloused hand cupping your breast, squeezing gently. “All over your tits too.” He frowns at the sight, leaning back to watch your nipples harden at his ministrations, his eyes narrowing when he sees the splotchy marks left by Xavier. “You call that fair, sweetheart?”

All you can manage is a stubborn pout, averting your gaze. He sighs, and you shuffle forward, pressing your face into his chest. “He apologized,” you say, remembering the way Xavier had been on his knees. You let out a heavy breath. “Turns out he’s really good at apologizing.”

“I bet he is,” Caleb grumbles bitterly, his fingers pinching at your nipple absentmindedly.

You whimper, silently cursing yourself for being so weak. Caleb’s other hand comes up to cup your other breast, weighing it in his hand. The breath he lets out sounds a little too strained to be considered normal, your head tilting upwards to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” he says finally, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, his expression turning slightly serious.

Caleb lowers his head, his nose brushing against yours. He doesn’t go any further, simply staring into your eyes. It’s a little unnerving until you realize what he wants from you. Fingers curling into his shirt, you bring him a little closer to you, eyes slipping shut as your lips meet his in a chaste kiss.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper against his lips, “for not being understanding of your um-” you pause, trying to think of the right word, “preferences?”

He hums, his hand sliding up over the side of your neck to cup your cheek. “Yeah,” Caleb murmurs, “I still don’t think you understand what you mean to me.”

You blink up at him, brows furrowing in confusion. Caleb’s eyes bore down into yours, his expression conflicted. You stare into his eyes searchingly when you think you spot a hint of wistfulness breaking through. “Caleb?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he whispers, both of his hands cupping your cheeks now. “I like you, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you say, the tension bleeding out from you. “I like you too, Caleb,” you chirp, a smile on your face, “you didn’t have to scare me like that.”

“What?”

“What?” you parrot back, confusion marring your expression yet again.

“No,” Caleb huffs out an irritated breath, “no, I like you.”

You give him a blank look. “...I know. You just said that.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, “I like you as in romantically. As in I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my fucking life pining after you.”

What? Your mouth opens before you close it, stunned into silence. You always knew Caleb had a little thing for you, but fifteen years? 

“And you didn’t say anything earlier?” you manage out, “and you chose to confess now?” You gesture towards your bare body, cheeks flushing.

“The timing was never right,” he replies stubbornly, his eyes narrowing, “and yes.”

“I don’t think the timing is right now!” you protest, shaking your head.

“You don’t feel the same way.”

You shoot him an indignant look. “I didn’t say that, Caleb. It’s just… it’s complicated. You know it is.”

“Always is with you, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his jaw clenching.

“Are you serious?” you begin, feeling cornered, “if you had just said some-”

You’re cut off when Caleb dips his head, pressing a bruising kiss against your lips, one that steals the air from your lungs, leaving your vision blurry when he pulls back.

“It’s okay,” Caleb says, his arms sliding under your thighs to pick you up before he dumps you on his bed unceremoniously. “The baby’s going to be mine, and when it is, I’m going to put a pretty fucking ring on this finger.”

“Marriage?” you squeak out, your complaints muffled by his mouth when he crawls over you, his mouth working against yours hungrily.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, pecking your lips gentler this time, “‘m gonna marry you, sweetheart.”

You were fairly certain the constant high altitudes he was flying at had gotten to his brain. Zayne could help, you think belatedly, until that thought is brushed away when he kisses your cheek, his lips returning to yours soon after, his tongue licking into your mouth, 

“What if the baby’s not yours?” you ask him breathlessly, thighs spreading wider when he settles his hips between them.

Caleb frowns at you, his grip adjusting on your hip. “It’ll be mine,” he says self-assuredly, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t be sure-”

“I’ll cum twice,” Caleb retorts.

“That’s- that’s against the rules!” you try to protest, a needy sigh slipping out of you when he mouths at your neck, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin as though trying to erase the marks laid there. “You- you all agreed to cum once ah- to- to make it fair!”

“Nothing fair about this whole thing, honey.”

Your toes curl when he calls you honey, an unbidden giggle slipping out of you. Caleb leans back to stare at your expression, a smile pulling at his lips when he sees you trying to hide away in the pillows, his nose nuzzling into your cheek, pressing soft kisses all over.

“You like that,” he laughs, his hand finding its way between your thighs.

“So- so what?” you ask breathlessly, moaning against his mouth when he slides his fingers between your puffy folds, your lips meeting his for a brief kiss, hips bucking when Caleb rubs your clit.

“So stop pretending like you don’t.”

You paw at his broad shoulders, fingers latching onto his biceps greedily. Caleb groans softly at your groping, his eyes going half-lidded, a pretty pink tinging his cheeks when you run your hands over his chest, squeezing his firm pecs.

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to feel his bare skin.

Caleb complies, sitting back on his knees. You watch as he pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, the silver chain around his neck grabbing your attention, the metal of his dog tags clinking together. 

“You still wear these?” you muse as you sit up, your fingers coming up to fiddle with his dog tags, flipping one of them over to read his name stamped into the metal. “Even when you’re not deployed?”

“All the time,” he murmurs, his fingers encircling your wrist, lips brushing over your knuckles.

You shiver at the fleeting kiss, leaning forward, your hands pushing at his chest to get him to lie down. Swinging a leg over his hip, you settle down on his lap, watching the way his dog tags settle between his pecs.

“I suppose you are a big shot, Caleb,” you sigh, biting your lip, fingers skimming down his chest teasingly.

“Colonel,” he corrects, watching hazily as you squirm down to settle on his thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats and boxers to pull them down.

Caleb’s cock slaps against his abdomen, hard and thick and somewhat imposing. You stare down at his arousal, cheeks flushing at the sight, watching as his cock twitches, pre-cum smearing across his skin.

“‘s nice,” you offer, hand wrapping around his cock, cunt throbbing when you feel the weight of him in your hand. “And- and big.”

“Bigger than theirs?” he asks, raising his brows, watching you closely as you begin to stroke his cock lazily.

Sylus’ was comparable, but you decide against telling him that, lest he throw another fit. Instead you nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes when Caleb’s chest puffs out, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

His hand slides between your thighs and you shift, settling on top of it, grinding your hips across his calloused palm, wetness coating his skin. Caleb lets out a heavy breath and you whine, mouth opening and tongue lolling out to let spit drip from your mouth onto his cock. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, throwing an arm over his face to hide his flushed expression, “baby, you’re fucking insane.”

“You wanted to missile strike another man’s apartment,” you shoot back, trying to pry his arm away from his face, eager to see his expressions. “Wanna see, Caleb.”

“I never said the idea was off the table,” he grouses, tilting his head to the side to let you mouth at his neck, his hips bucking up into your touch, trying to fuck his cock into the confines of your hand. “He could be a security threat,” Caleb mutters, his hands groping at your ass, squeezing and kneading. “Remind me to do a background check.”

“You’re such a baby,” you sigh, peering down to watch his cock move through your hand, tightening your grip.

A glob of pre-cum pools from the tip of his cock and you squirm, trying and failing to shuffle down and take his cock into your mouth, glaring at him when he keeps you anchored against him, on his lap.

“Always hungry for cock, hm?” Caleb coos, drawing out a loud moan from you when he curls his fingers, sinking them into your clenching pussy. “My cock-hungry little slut.”

You stifle a whimper, hips rising and falling as you fuck yourself on his fingers. His cock throbs in your hand and you squeeze, watching as more globs of thick pre-cum bead at the tip, smearing across when you spit down on his cock again, your lustful gaze meeting his.

“What?” you mumble, pecking his lips gently, eyes fluttering shut.

“Nothing,” he breathes out against your lips, his fingers crooking further, your head tipping back when his fingers hit the sensitive spot inside of you, the feeling enough to have you crying out. “You’re just… pretty.”

You blink up at him, lower lip jutting out in a pout, heart lurching uncomfortably in your chest. You press your face into the crook of his neck, your wrist twisting at a faster pace, jerking him off more desperately.

“Ah-” Caleb moans, his hand on your hip tightening when you rock your hips faster, his eyes squeezing shut when he feels the clench of your pussy around his fingers. “Slow down, honey.”

“I wanna watch you cum,” you say, teeth scraping along his shoulder, thumb brushing over the head of his cock, smiling when you feel Caleb jolt and grunt.

“No-” he shakes his head, “no, shit- I can’t cum now, baby.”

You ignore him, hand stroking faster, your other hand drifting to cup his balls, massaging them gently. Caleb curses and you squeal when he slaps your ass, the view of his room changing suddenly when he grabs you by your hips and pins you down into the bed.

You open your mouth to protest, to tell him that you weren’t done stroking his cock, but you’re only met with the creak of Caleb’s bed as he gets off of it, disappearing through the door. Your brows furrow, the bed dipping as you crawl to the edge of the bed. “Caleb?” you call out, “are- are you coming back?”

Your confusion only grows when he returns with your scarf in hand. “I- I wasn’t serious,” you begin, feeling disoriented when he moves towards you, “I don’t actually want to have sex with the scarf on.”

Caleb smiles, his eyes glittering with mirth. “I thought it might help you keep your hands to yourself,” he murmurs, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, making your face scrunch up. 

You stare up at him, head tilting in question. Caleb huffs out a laugh at your expression, nose nudging against yours to land a kiss to your lips this time. His hands slide under you, picking you up before placing you closer to the headboard of his bed. You squirm under him, watching as he straddles you.

While he’s too busy pinning your wrists together, you lean forward, mouth enveloping his cock. Caleb jerks at the sudden sensation, cursing loudly, his body hunching over as you lap at the head of the cock.

“Can you listen for once?” he asks exasperatedly, his eyes narrowing down to look at you as you try to crane your neck forward, trying to take him deeper into your mouth.

Caleb rolls his eyes when you don’t listen, his fingers sliding over your wrists, winding your woolly scarf around and around, effectively binding them together. You whine when his cock slips out of your mouth with a soft pop, trying to sit up only to find your movement restricted. Your head tilts back, a huff of air leaving you when you realize he’s tied your wrists to the railing of the headboard of his bed.

“I didn’t know you were into bondage, Caleb.”

“It’s not-” Caleb sputters for a moment, before he stares at you suspiciously, “how do you know what bondage is?”

You smile up at him sweetly. “I like to read.”

He decides against chastising you, instead making a mental note to pry into whatever it was that you were reading. Your eyes flutter shut when he strokes his hand over your hair, his lips slotting over yours. “Is this okay?” he asks, fingers trailing down your sides to grip your hips, “being tied up?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, pecking his lips gently, “it’s okay.”

You bite your lip as you watch him slink down your body, his lips leaving kisses as he moves. A soft sigh escapes you when he swirls his tongue around your nipple, his teeth biting down gently before he kisses your nipple, smiling against your skin when you twitch.

Caleb’s fingers slide over your stomach, his teeth scraping across your skin. You whimper when he settles between your thighs finally, trying to reach down to run your fingers through your hair only to be reminded of the fact that you’ve been tied up.

“Hands to yourself, honey,” he reminds you, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you pout.

“Jerk,” you murmur, head tipping back when his breath ghosts over your puffy folds, his fingers spreading you open.

“Think you like that about me,” Caleb mumbles, swallowing at the sight of your wet pussy, letting out a strained breath, “‘s pretty, baby. Really fucking pretty.”

You flush, pussy clenching when he licks over your clit, thighs twitching. Caleb’s fingers wrap around your thighs, placing them over his broad shoulders, his mouth opening wider. Tongue sliding through your folds, he laps at your cunt obscenely, your eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. 

He thinks he could die a happy man when you squeeze your thighs around his head, his mouth wrapping around your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue against the swollen bud. 

Caleb’s name spills out of your mouth repeatedly in a pleading chant, tears pricking at your eyes when he digs his fingers into your thighs roughly. It all feels so good, his mouth on you, the tight grip he has on as though you might just disappear out from under you if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You blink down at him when Caleb pulls away to lick his lips, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick and his spit, his gaze heady. A whimper leaves you when he bites your inner thigh, over the marks Xavier left, his teeth imprinted into your skin as you surrender yourself to him.

Caleb decides it’s not enough, pressing a kiss to your clit before he’s moving you to flip onto your back, your scarf twisting with you.

“Get on your knees, baby,” he rasps, tapping your hips.

You do your best, face shoved into the pillows as you squirm up onto your knees, feeling slightly mortified when Caleb spreads you apart, his hands kneading at your asscheeks. 

“Don’t- don’t do that,” you whine, body jerking forward when Caleb runs his tongue through your folds unexpectedly.

“You’re shy now?” he laughs softly, biting into the fat of your ass playfully.

You ignore him, too busy moaning into the pillows when Caleb rubs your clit, his face pressing between your thighs, nose pressing up against your pussy. A sharp gasp leaves you, hips rocking back, trying to grind against the bridge of his nose while his tongue joins his fingers, lapping over your swollen clit.

“Caleb,” you mewl, hands gripping onto the railing of his headboard, the wool of your scarf rubbing against your wrists, “nghhh- ah- you’re so-”

“Charming?” he offers.

You let out a strangled laugh, squeaking when his hand comes down on your ass. He spanks you again, and you make a noise in protest, trying to crawl away, except you have nowhere to go, the scarf fastened enough to prevent you. It’s all too much when his tongue presses into your aching cunt, a cry escaping you as Caleb fucks his tongue in and out of you.

He squeezes your thigh harshly and your movements grow more desperate, trying to sway your hips back when his mouth latches onto you clit again, the press of his nose too much to handle. 

“Gonna cum?” Caleb asks, his voice a low growl, “huh, baby? Gonna cum on my fucking tongue?”

“Y- yes!” you squeal, your knees giving out under you when he shoves his tongue back into your cunt, fucking it in and out of you. “Oh fuck, Caleb- oh fuck!”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me,” he growls, his fingers rubbing at your clit fast and with just enough pressure that you give a trembling cry of his name, slumping down against the sheets as your thighs twitch uncontrollably, panting raggedly to try and catch your breath, toes curling in delirium. 

Caleb loosens the scarf binding your wrists when he sees you struggling to move, his cock smearing pre-cum across your thighs and stomach as he turns you over, lips slotting over yours in a desperate kiss. 

He’s picking you up soon after, chasing after your lips when you pull away to catch your breath, capturing them again, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Caleb’s kisses are messy, spit leaking out from the sides of your mouth as he settles you onto his lap, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.

“Can’t- can’t breathe,” you complain, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

Caleb grumbles his displeasure under his breath before his eyes catch sight of your reddened wrists. Letting out a sigh, he grabs one of them, fingers running over your wrist gently, lifting it up to his lips to press soft kisses.

“You okay?” he murmurs, reaching for your other wrist, repeating his ministrations. “Was it too much?”

“No,” you say quietly, kissing his jaw, “it was good. I- I um- enjoyed it.”

Caleb smiles when you meet his eyes, his lips pressing up against the pads of your fingers. You smile back, feeling a little shy despite everything. He tucks your messy hair behind your ear, his touch skimming down your throat fleetingly.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he confesses, letting out a heavy breath, his head tipping back to rest against the headboard.

“I’m here,” you whisper, feeling unsure about what else to say, your fingers playing with his dog tags, bringing them up towards you to kiss the small, metal plates.

Caleb’s expression softens as he watches you, his heart thudding in his chest.

“I’m yours, Caleb,” you continue, kissing him sweetly. “See?”

You reach out, fingers sliding under his silver chain to lift it up over his head before you place it around his neck. The metal chimes softly, his dog tags settling between your breasts.

Caleb nearly cums at the sight. You know exactly how to rile him up, know exactly what to do to make him feel like a lovesick fool. He stares down at you, his adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, fingers flexing against your hips.

You look so sweet, so soft, perched atop his lap delicately. He doesn’t know what to say when you peer up at him, feeling short of breath when you lean forward to kiss his cheek gently. Caleb’s fingers reach out to graze his dog tags, the cool metal grounding him at least for a moment.

“I hate how you make me feel,” he murmurs finally, hands smoothing over your sides, dragging you closer, groaning softly when your breasts squish up against his chest.

“Sorry?” you offer meekly, biting your lip when he squeezes the fat of your ass.

“Don’t be,” Caleb sighs, his forehead pressing against yours.

He kisses you gently, lips smacking against yours in the quiet of his bedroom. You rock your hips, pussy sliding over the length of his cock. Caleb grunts into your mouth, lifting you up, his hands grasping you under your thighs while you mewl, hand grasping his cock to line him up against your entrance.

“Caleb,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut when he sinks you down slowly onto his cock, nails scratching his pecs at the feeling of him stretching you out, his cock thick enough to have you feeling like you’re being split open.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, “doing so good for me. Taking my cock so well, yeah?”

You nod, still scrabbling at his chest, whining when he sinks you down onto the entire length of his cock, your pussy trying to accommodate his size. Caleb smiles against your cheek, kneading at your hips, muttering soft words of encouragement.

Your eyes meet his, hands sliding over his shoulders to let your arms wrap around his neck. Caleb leans back, resting against the headboard as you shuffle on his lap to get more comfortable, beginning to roll your hips.

“Good girl,” Caleb says hoarsely, “just like that, baby. Take your time.”

Spreading your legs to set a wider base, you rise up before dropping your hips back down, making Caleb groan when he feels you beginning to bounce on his cock, his eyes fluttering shut. You bite your lip at the sight, arms tightening around his neck, fucking yourself on his cock, gasping when you feel his cock twitch.

You think you might feel him in your stomach, his cock so fat and thick that it has your cunt clenching in quick succession in an attempt to readjust with every rise and fall of your hips. Caleb’s dog tags jingle with every bounce of you on his lap, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder, his teeth scraping across your shoulder.

“Wanna feel you fuck me full,” you mumble, nuzzling against his jaw, “please?”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, “you wanna be bred, sweetheart? Wanna have my baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, sending him a drunken smile when he stares down at you.

Caleb’s fingers hook into the chain around your neck, tugging you closer until you’re moaning against his mouth, his darkened eyes watch the bounce and sway of your tits as you fuck yourself on his cock.

“Good fucking girl,” Caleb grunts, “ride my cock, sweetheart. Gonna fill you to the fucking brim.”

His words are obscene, his teeth biting at your lower lip, fingers pinching at your nipples until you’re writhing on his lap. You squeak when he wraps his hands around your waist, letting out a sharp gasp when he picks you up as though you weigh nothing and slams you down onto the length of his cock.

“C- Caleb! ‘s too much!” you wail, nails scratching down his back, unable to meet his eyes properly, not when he’s using you, taking you like you’re nothing but a ragdoll.

“No,” Caleb snaps, “it’s not too much; fucking take it.”

You squeal when he bites your breast, hands flailing for purchase, trying to grab out for something, anything, but it’s hard when he’s fucking you onto his cock like this, your hands landing on his shoulders briefly. The clank of his dog tags is drowned out by the sounds of his balls slapping against you, the lewd noises of his cock thrusting in and out of your clenching pussy.

“Do you like me?”

“Wh- what?” you manage out, lashes fluttering rapidly as you try to blink clearly. 

“Do you like me?” Caleb asks, his voice hoarse and raspy, enough to have you clenching around his cock. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond. “Say yes,” he breathes out, pressing his chest more firmly against yours, as though trying to meld your bodies together. 

You feel lightheaded and short of breath when his fingers shift, pressing into your lower stomach. His voice turns into something softer, something more pleading. “Say yes, sweetheart.”

“Y- yes,” you hiccup, heart fluttering in your chest, “I- I like you Caleb.”

“Again,” he demands, nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering above yours.

“I like you,” you say breathlessly, kissing his jaw, “like you so much, Caleb. Wanna be bred, please- please cum inside.” You don’t exactly why you utter the next words, but you figure Caleb ought to be into that sort of thing, the power trip it gives him when he’s clinging to control. “Please, Colonel?”

“Oh my- fuck!” Caleb swears sharply, and you can feel his hips jerk, his grip on you faltering when you call him by his title. “You little minx- fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Sorry,” you whine, smiling against his mouth, pawing at his thick pecs, tongue licking over his lips. “‘m sorry, Colonel. Just- just wanna have your baby.”

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” Caleb groans loudly, fingers dimpling the flesh of your hips, “‘m gonna fill this pretty pussy up, sweetheart.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, feeling beyond fucked out, your head a swirl of Caleb, and Caleb only, unable to register anything other than the feeling of his cock snug inside your cunt, the cool metal of his dog tags against your skin, his mouth on yours.

“Ah-” Caleb whines, high and broken, the sound enough to make your back arch, nails digging into his chest.

He manages to fuck you on his cock a few more times, his hands pushing at your hips until your pussy hugs the entirety of his cock, your ass snug against his balls. Caleb moans into your ear, panting and whining as he cums, his cock twitching inside of you as hot spurts of cum spill out, filling you up.

You twitch atop him, the walls of your cunt fluttering around him, eyes squeezing shut as you feel your own orgasm wash over you.

Caleb clicks his tongue when you try to squirm off of him, rubbing his hands over your thighs when you complain about the ache settling in your muscles.

“Stay,” he whispers, kissing your temple, “gotta make sure it takes.”

A few minutes later, you curl up into his side when he lays you down gently, his hand rubbing over your side soothingly. Only the sounds of your breathing fill his room, Caleb’s fingers stroking across you gently. Your lips meet his when he lowers his head, sighing when he squeezes your thighs, massaging them gently.

“We don’t have to do it twice,” he whispers, “I was just- it was the heat of the moment.”

You stare at him, taking in the softness in his eyes, your head tilting to nuzzle into his palm when he strokes his thumb across your cheek. It’s against the rules, you remind yourself, and yet fifteen years… the number is enough to make your stomach flip.

“Did you mean it?” you ask quietly, your fingers tracing across his chest, over the ridges and dips of his muscles.

Caleb lets out a low sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. “Every word, sweetheart.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and Caleb presses his nose into your hair, his eyes opening when he hears the clink of metal. You give him a shy smile, leg swinging over his hip as you straddle him.

The man under you groans softly when you roll your hips, his eyes raptly watching the gentle sway of his dog tags between your breasts. The soft, sweet sentence that you utter next has Caleb closing his eyes in a silent prayer. You truly were going to drive him to madness.

“Better make up for lost time, Colonel.”

- 

Caleb has never seen you more disarmed than when you’re asleep.

He supposes it’s a bit creepy to stare at you while you’re sleeping, but he can’t help it, having been stirred awake by a cramp in his leg. His fingers ghost across the curve of your cheek, careful not to wake you, an uncomfortable ache piercing through his heart. 

If only he could keep you here with him.

But Caleb knows how stubborn you are, and he knows the rules of this little scheme that he agreed to, even if they are stupid and he’s already broken one of them. He stiffens when you stir, a smile pulling at his lips when drool slips out the side of your mouth, your body squirming as you roll over onto your back.

When he catches a glimpse of your marked neck, his irritation flares again, lips thinning. Caleb supposes he is driven by jealousy, there’s no point in denying it, not when the ugly head of envy rears his head and he finds his vision tinted with a hue of green that makes it difficult to think clearly.

His fingers are curling over your thigh gently, prying your legs apart carefully, his breath catching in his throat when he sees his cum smeared between your thighs and all over your pussy. Messy, he thinks, lowering his head to kiss your hip affectionately.

The flash of his phone camera isn’t bright enough to wake you up. Caleb stifles a groan at the picture, trying to will away the throb in his cock, his gaze entranced by the image of your messy pussy, covered and filled up with two loads of his cum. 

Just like how it should be, he thinks belatedly. Caleb would make it his lockscreen if it wasn’t so intimate. 

His fingers tap across his screen, finding Xavier’s number. There’s no need for unnecessary texts. The image is sent, Caleb’s lips pulling up into a sneer at the thought of the silver-haired man. 

Caleb tosses his phone onto his bedside table, wrapping his arms around, brushing a gentle kiss to your forehead, humming softly as you curl up into his arms, snuggling closer as you seek out his warmth. The soft sounds of his clinking dog tags catch his attention.

Caleb decides he’ll need to get an extra one stamped. 

One with your name.

taglist >///<

@serenitymaria @kreishin @qyuin @wegottastayfocus @novthirty @syluslittlecrows @blorbohunter @luvleixo @crimsonmarabou @skylaryoung2002 @multisstuff @chirikoheina @supermissnkta @serenity-loves-red @shi-thats-kiera @froleineeeee @jaynawayna @schooki @minyoongi-pouts @mizienjoyer @isagistar @zaynesnowflake @athena-portgas @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @cutelittlesugarfairy @pookiei-bookie @dooopiee @rafshottestgf @thetimetravelernightmare @slytherin-min99 @envy-of-greed @paninisstuff @h0ngh0ngh0ng @nezuswritingdesk @teeheeheartless @flwerie @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @babyx91 @thisaintviolet69 @scoupsonlycherry @blubearxy @midiplier @young-adult-summer @daisys-mushroom-garden @sunsethw4 @lads-ficrecs @buffytheangelslayer @helios-eyre @browneyedgirl22 @straows @lennysnicket @actuallynarii

[simp-for-love]

Looks better on you

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Mattheo lends you his sweater on a cold day without much thinking. But when you keep wearing it, he starts to realize that maybe he doesn’t want it back.

Warnings: none. Pure fluff

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, my lovelies 💕 A bit cliché, but I wanted to post something short and sweet today.

The wind cut through the Hogwarts courtyard with an unforgiving chill, and you regretted your decision to leave your scarf in the dorm. Hugging your arms to yourself, you tried to focus on the conversation around you, but the cold made it really difficult.

Mattheo leaned casually against the stone railing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweater, looking completely unbothered by the weather. You weren’t sure how he managed that — maybe pure arrogance was enough to keep him warm.

He was talking to Theo and Enzo about some ridiculous bet they had going, but you weren’t paying much attention, too busy trying to keep yourself from shivering, but too lazy to go to the dorm and dress something warmer. Apparently, though, Mattheo noticed.

Without a word, he pulled his sweater over his head and, before you could even protest, dropped it onto yours.

You blinked. "What—?"

"You’re freezing. Just wear it," he muttered, shaking out his curls.

The wind was still relentless, and as much as your pride wanted you to decline, the warmth from the fabric was already sinking into your skin. The sweater was warm, soft, and — most notably — it smells like him. Hesitantly, you pulled it over your head, and immediately, you were enveloped in his scent — something woodsy with a hint of smoke, like firewhiskey and late-night trouble.

"Looks better on you anyway," he said before turning back to the conversation, as if he hadn’t just casually sent your heart into overdrive with his sweet gesture and boyish smirk.

The sleeves were too long, swallowing your hands completely, and when you glanced up, Mattheo was watching you with a smirk tugging on his lips.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It was supposed to be temporary. Just until you got back to your dorm. But somehow, you kept wearing it.

It started that evening when you curled up in the common room with a book, still wrapped in the warmth of Mattheo’s sweater. He didn’t say anything about it, just raised an eyebrow as he passed by, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

Then it was the next morning at breakfast. You were too tired to notice, but Mattheo definitely did, his usual smirk faltering slightly when he spotted you across the Great Hall.

And then, in the library, when you absentmindedly pulled the sleeve over your fingers while reading a book with focused expression on your face.

By the third day, it had become a thing.

"You do realize that’s mine, right?" Mattheo finally asked, sliding into the seat beside you in Potions.

You glanced down at yourself, feigning innocence. "Oh, is it? I must’ve forgotten."

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Right. You forgot."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It wasn’t until a few nights later, when you were both sitting by the fire in the common room, that he finally said something real about it.

You were curled up on the couch, absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of his sweater. The fire cast a golden glow over everything, making the room feel warmer than it probably was. Mattheo, lounging in the chair beside you, was watching you — not that you noticed at first.

But when you finally looked up, you caught him staring.

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just tilted his head slightly, a lazy smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his eyes. Something hesitant.

"Nothing," he said at last, voice quieter than usual. "Just thinking I might never get that sweater back."

Your fingers froze against the fabric. The way he said it — it wasn’t teasing, not really. There was something else there, something unspoken.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. "Do you… want it back?"

Mattheo studied you for a long moment, then let out a slow exhale, shaking his head slightly with a small smile tugging on his lips.

"No," he admitted. "I think I like it better on you."

And just like that, the warmth in your chest rivaled the fire crackling beside you.

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (14) - Mattheo Riddle

-

The air at Hogwarts was crisp with January frost, snow clinging to the windows in delicate patterns as if the castle itself had been frozen in time. The buzz of returning students filled the halls — laughter, chatter, floating luggage, enchanted pets darting between legs — but it all faded when Enzo found you.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor toward Ravenclaw Tower, scarf still looped loosely around your neck, when he came barreling toward you, looking more rattled than you’d ever seen him.

“Thank Merlin, you’re back,” he breathed, grabbing your wrist, his eyes wide with urgency. “We need you. He needs you. Now.”

You blinked. “What happened?”

“It’s Mattheo,” Enzo said tightly. “He’s…not okay.”

Your heart dropped like a stone.

“He’s been at Malfoy Manor the whole break,” Enzo continued, tugging you with him toward the dungeons. “With him. With all the fucking Death Eaters. They’ve—he’s—he’s been different since he got back. Cold. On edge. Like he can’t turn it off.”

Theo had sent a letter over break, hinting at Mattheo’s silence, but you hadn’t wanted to read too much into it. Now, you could feel it in your bones — whatever warmth Mattheo left Hogwarts with hadn’t made it home with him.

You didn’t speak the rest of the way down to the Slytherin common room. You didn’t need to.

———

The Slytherin common room was dim, lit mostly by green-tinged torchlight and the flicker of the fire. A group of younger students huddled silently by the far wall, whispering nervously. Theo was standing halfway between them and Mattheo, jaw clenched, arms crossed.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo Riddle stood dead center, radiating danger. His back was tense, his black cloak still damp with melted snow, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. There was something in his eyes — something shadowed, violent, barely contained.

He didn’t even look at you right away.

Theo noticed first. “Thank Gods—” he muttered, nudging Mattheo. “Mate. Look.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward you. At first, there was no change.

Then he blinked.

And then — his shoulders slumped, just barely. His jaw loosened. His fingers twitched.

Your name left his lips in a whisper, hoarse and low. “You’re here.”

You took a step forward, scanning him — the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his stance, the hollow weight in his expression. “Of course I’m here.”

He stared at you like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. And for a moment, no one moved.

Then your voice sharpened. “You’re scaring people, Mattheo.”

Something flickered in his eyes — guilt, buried under rage and pain. But he didn’t argue.

“Come with me,” you said quietly, stepping closer. “Now.”

He obeyed without a word.

———

The door to Mattheo’s dorm had barely shut behind you before you reached for him. Your hands slid up his arms, into his hair, your fingers weaving through those dark curls like you were trying to ground him — because you were. And slowly, slowly, the walls began to fall.

Mattheo leaned his forehead against yours, breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he muttered.

“I had to see you,” you replied softly. “I needed to.”

He wrapped his arms around you — tight, desperate — and buried his face in your neck.

“They were all over my head,” he whispered. “Every second of every day. The way they talk… the way they think. It’s like poison.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “You’re not them.”

“I could be,” he said bitterly. “I look like him. I think like him, sometimes. I hear that voice in my head—”

“No,” you interrupted, firmly now. “You’re not him. You never will be. You fight every day to be better, and that is what makes you strong. That’s what makes you Mattheo.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they rested on your waist.

You reached up and kissed his brow. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. Slowly. Carefully.

“I missed you,” you whispered, eyes wet now. “Every second you were gone.”

He finally smiled — the smallest, most broken little smile — and closed his eyes like he could feel himself starting to breathe again.

“I missed you more,” he said. “And I never want to go that long without you again.”

You pulled him down to sit on the bed with you, his head in your lap as your fingers ran through his hair in slow, soothing circles.

He looked up at you like you were the only light left in the world.

Then he blinked. “Wait—your gift.”

You tilted your head. “What gift?”

He reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out a small, dark velvet box.

“I was going to give it to you on Christmas, but I couldn’t get away. I carried it every day. It made me feel…close to you.”

He opened it, and your breath caught.

A stunning emerald pendant glowed softly from inside the box — delicate, glimmering, and unmistakably enchanted.

“Mattheo,” you breathed.

He took it out and stood, brushing your hair back as he fastened it gently around your neck.

“It’s charmed to warm when I’m thinking about you,” he murmured. “So you’ll always know when you’re on my mind.”

You looked up at him, touched beyond words.

“Which,” he added with a smirk, “is pretty much all the time.”

You laughed through your tears, and he pulled you into his chest again.

“You’re my peace,” he whispered into your hair. “My home. My everything.”

And for the first time since the holidays began, Mattheo Riddle didn’t feel like he was suffocating in his father’s shadow.

He felt like he belonged to you.

Taglist: @hisonlyobsession @loonyladystardust

[pellucid-constellations]

Azriel finds you in the cold.

Azriel x Reader (780 words, based on a request!, warnings: hypothermia, angst)

Masterlist here

~~

You were used to the cold. You grew up in its unforgiving teeth and clawed past winters when the bite felt almost too strong. There were methods to survive it, tactics to overcome the painful numbness that crept along your skin, but there didn’t seem to be a pattern to this cold. You were alone and this chill was with you. 

You should have listened to Azriel. 

It’s not a normal snow, he had warned, you should wait for me. But everyone seemed to forget that you were new to being fae, and when you were new, you felt invincible. You could live through the winters of your mortal years without a second thought. You couldn’t die from snow or ice or sleet. 

Or, so you thought. 

You huddled against the tree trunk, your fingers stinging and burning—but that didn’t make sense because the only substance that surrounded you was the blizzard. You could feel your body begin to slow, movements becoming labored when they shouldn’t. You hadn’t felt this kind of weakness since before becoming fae. 

Azriel was going to kill you; he’d be so furious to find your body here, surrounded by nothing on the outskirts of the winter court. Each soft whisper he’d pressed to your skin was loaded with adoration and praise for you being his mate above all else. He’d waited for you, he would tell you, and now you were going to die a meaningless death. 

Your grip on your cloak was concrete and rigid, but it was pointless. The snow had already seeped into the material and chilled you to the bone. 

You were tired. 

Closing your eyes seemed like the right decision. Sleep would help you gain the strength to sift through the white haze and find the border to these lands. 

Your lashes brushed your cheek and darkness felt warm. 

Until the incessant tug at your ribs became unbearable. Until a voice was calling you home and the concept of home ticked your heart rate up a beat. 

“Open your eyes. Please,” the voice stressed. Your body was numb and nothing was coherent over the whistling wind. 

There was pressure on your face and the air felt more stagnant, but everything else remained unchanged. 

Going against every muscle and desire in your being, you fought the weight of your eyelids and were met with the image of Azriel in the blistering cold. He was wrapped up to his neck as you were, but he was taking all of it off. 

“No,” you mumbled, the word barely a sound in the wind. 

Azriel’s gaze snapped up to you, his hands still clutching the scarf he was prying from his shoulders. His hands, with no gloves to cover his skin, cupped your cheeks. You couldn’t feel the heat of his skin, but you could feel the quivering of his fingers. 

“Good,” he seemed to mumble to himself. “Good, you’re awake. Okay, okay…” 

It was nonsensical and your brain was far too muddled to make sense of it. You only raised the dead weight of your arm to wrap stiff fingers around the material of his cloak. 

“Keep… it on,” you whispered. 

A spark of something shot across Azriel’s face. His lips parted as snow settled on his brow. “I need to take it off. I need to get you warm.” 

You let out a shuddering breath. Azriel, with his brows painfully furrowed, watched you for only a second more before he continued his motion to get you pressed to more of his skin and wrap the remaining area of his winter wear around you. 

“I love you, do you hear me?” Azriel spoke by your ear, the tone of his voice unwavering despite how his body shook. As if he wanted the strength to seep into your bones and warm you. As if that would work. 

He stood with you in his arms, your body now jarred by the change in temperature. He was moving quickly but not flying. Through a bleary blink, you saw the ice forming on the juncture of his wings.

“Answer me, y/n,” Azriel demanded.

“I’m tired,” you replied. 

“I know. I need to get past the border and then we’ll be home. You can sleep then, but not before.” 

You hummed a response. 

Azriel seemed to tense beneath you. “I love you,” he repeated. “Please don’t do this.” 

You wanted to tell him that you weren’t doing anything—that it was too cold for him to be here. But in the comfort of his arms, you let the darkness of his shadows lull you to sleep. In your dreams, you heard your name, over and over. 

[subliminalghoest]

Ghost x f!reader (reader is a knitter and knits items for all the tf141 boys)

The mess hall was quiet, save for the soft clinking of cutlery against trays and the occasional murmur of conversation. You sat at your usual spot, a ball of yarn in your lap, currently working on a swatch for your next project. Knitting had always been a way to unwind, a small slice of home amidst the chaos of the barracks.

Soap sat across from you, elbows on the table as he watched your hands move. “Dunno how you do it,” he muttered, squinting at the intricate pattern forming. “Looks complicated.”

“It’s not,” you said, lips twitching. “You just don’t have the patience for it.”

Ghost, seated beside you, let out a small, amused huff. Neither of you had told the others about that time he came to your room asking you to teach him, rather unsuccessfully. You kept the mess of wool he’d created, never bothering to untangle the mess.

Price was at the end of the table, reading over a report, and Gaz was busy demolishing his second helping of whatever cake was on offer today. It was a rare moment of peace.

Until some new guy, a younger recruit, strolled in and spotted you.

He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Knitting?” He let out a short laugh. “Didn’t realize we had a fucking grandma on the team. Get a life, am I right?” The patronising tone dripping like honey.

You barely reacted, too used to comments like that. But what surprised you was the way the entire table shifted.

Soap leaned forward, forearms resting against the table, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You wanna say that again, mate?”

The recruit hesitated, glancing between them. “I mean—it’s just—” He chuckled nervously. “It’s an old person’s hobby, yeah? Didn’t think someone in this line of work would be into that kinda thing.”

Price exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the sheer stupidity unfolding before him.

“It was just a joke, dude.” Looking around for someone who would come back him up, he shifted uncomfortably on his feet again.

Gaz wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward you. “Tell me, mate—what kind of hobbies do you have? Anything as useful as hers?”

The recruit blinked. “Uh…”

“Didn’t think so,” Ghost muttered, setting his mug down with a dull thunk. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous.

The guy’s shoulders stiffened.

And then, as if to prove a point, Soap rolled up the sleeve of his combat shirt, revealing a thick, fingerless gloves with ‘soap’ lettered across the top of both knuckles. “Made this for me last winter,” he said proudly. “Bloody lifesaver in the cold.”

Gaz grinned and tugged at his beanie. “This too. Custom made.” It did have a small Union Jack you had painstakingly knitted into the hat.

Price, without looking up from his report, casually lifted his mug. It was wrapped in a snug, knitted cozy, complete with the Task Force’s emblem on it.

The recruit’s mouth opened, then closed.

And finally, Ghost—of all people—reached into his vest and pulled out a small, neatly folded black scarf. He didn’t say a word, just let the recruit see it before tucking it away again.

Silence.

The guy swallowed. “Right. Uh—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to us,” Price drawled, finally glancing up. “Apologize to her.”

The recruit turned to you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Uh. Sorry.”

You simply looked up at him, gave him a once over and nodded once before picking up your needles again. “Apology accepted.”

The table remained silent as the recruit awkwardly shuffled away.

After a beat, Soap snickered. “Bloody idiot.”

Gaz smirked. “Think he’s gonna ask for a scarf next?”

You shook your head, amused. “Doubt it.”

Ghost, still quiet, reached over and picked up the ball of yarn beside you. He turned it in his hands, gaze unreadable beneath the mask. Then, voice low, he murmured,

“Why doesn’t mine have a personal touch?”

At your confused look, he gestured to Price’s mug cosy. Your cheeks heated, you had assumed he wouldn’t want anything like that and honestly it had felt too personal of a gift to give to Ghost, too telling of your feelings towards him.

He was more important than the others to you, you’d trust him with anything, everything.

“I have a pretty obvious motif you could’ve used y’know.” His shoulder knocked into yours, careful not to jolt you too much and make you drop a stitch. “Make me another one.”

You met his eyes, warmth curling in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “A balaclava this time maybe.”

His eyes lit up with something at the idea, “you wanna borrow one as reference?”

Your eyes snapped down to the balaclava he currently wore, hiding the man underneath just out of view. The hint of full lips and a strong nose. The idea of having something so integral to him, it stopped your breath in your chest.

“Ok.” You pushed the word out, nodding at him when he told you he’d get it to you later.

————————————————————————

The rec room was unusually quiet tonight, the usual rowdiness dialed down to a low murmur. A football match played on the mounted TV, a few soldiers half-watching as they lounged across mismatched chairs.

You were tucked into the corner of the couch, legs curled up beneath you, the crochet hook you were using consuming your little bubble of focus.

The balaclava was coming along well, the skull design starting to take shape. It was a labor of love, every stitch precise, carefully crafted to match the one Ghost always wore.

You were mid-row when a familiar shadow loomed over you.

“What’s this, then?”

You startled slightly, fingers tightening around the yarn as Ghost settled onto the couch beside you. He sat close—not unusual, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him even through your layers.

You shifted, subtly angling yourself away from his line of sight. “Nothing.”

Ghost hummed, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t look like nothin’.”

You didn’t dare look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on the crochet in your lap. “It’s a work in progress.”

A pause. Then, “That the balaclava?”

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t answer, Ghost shifted.

You barely had time to react before he dipped his head, trying to peer over your shoulder. You turned quickly, twisting the fabric away from his view.

“Ghost,” you warned.

He leaned in further, voice low with amusement. “Just wanna see.”

“You cant see,” you shot back, tucking the project behind you to shield it from view. “Not yet.”

Ghost exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one trying to peek.”

You expected him to back off, maybe let it go—but of course, he did the opposite.

With zero hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over yours as he gently—not snatching, thankfully—tried to pull the item away from your grasp.

You shot your arm out, keeping the yarn out of reach, and before you could react, you lost your balance.

One moment, you were dodging him. The next, you found yourself pressed against the arm of the couch, Ghost leaning over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder with the other reaching towards the yarn you held outstretched.

You both froze.

It wasn’t that different from combat training, really. Close quarters, tangled limbs, the familiar weight of his presence pressing into your space. But this wasn’t training.

You had touched each-other before, it was familiar.

What wasn’t familiar was how it felt.

Your breathing hitched as Ghost’s gaze met yours, dark eyes dominating your vision. His fingers were still grazing your hands, barely there, but enough to send heat curling through your spine.

Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with awareness. You swore his gaze dipped—just for a second—to your lips before snapping back up.

Then, just as slowly, he eased away. “Fine, have it your way, Love”

The moment passed, dissipating like smoke, ease replacing the tension.

You sat up, straightening the yarn in your lap, fingers slightly unsteady as you smoothed out the yarn now carefully hidden behind your raised knee.

Ghost exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “All that just to keep me from seein’ something I know you’re making f’me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You started it.”

He hummed, gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary before he leaned back into the couch, settling beside you like nothing had happened.

You settled more comfortably, not bothering to hide the project any longer. If he inspected what lay in your lap, he hid it well.

Conversation passed easily between you both as you continued your rows. The warmth from him seeping into you through your legs that was pressed against his side.

The position was borderline intimate.

And neither of you minded one bit.

Prequel here

[lazysoulwriter]

warm kisses, cold mountains. - lando norris.

using this request to say that i'm writing for lando now! ♡ (sorry if I take too long bubs)

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The cold air bites at your cheeks as you adjust the goggles resting on your forehead, your snowboard tucked under your arm. The Austrian Alps stretch endlessly behind you, a breathtaking backdrop to yet another Red Bull-sponsored training session. Snowboarding has been your life for as long as you can remember, and now, being one of the top athletes in the sport, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Well… except maybe for the man currently watching you with a grin from the sidelines.

Lando Norris, the McLaren driver who somehow became the love of your life, sits on a snow-covered bench, bundled up in layers, his nose and cheeks slightly pink from the cold. He’s been here all morning, watching you practice, cheering you on between his sips of hot chocolate.

When you reach him, shaking the fresh powder off your jacket, he immediately opens his arms for you. “Come here,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck.

You don’t hesitate. Settling onto his lap, you feel the warmth of his body seep through the thick layers of your clothes. He tightens his arms around you, nuzzling his face against your shoulder.

“You look amazing out there,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw. “I swear, I could watch you do this all day.”

You chuckle, running a gloved hand through his curls. “That’s literally what you’ve been doing.”

“Yeah, well…” He grins, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Still not enough.”

You sigh, letting your forehead rest against his. The contrast between his warm breath and the crisp mountain air makes you shiver, but it has nothing to do with the cold.

“You should come with me on the next run,” you tease, tilting your head slightly. “I can teach you a thing or two.”

Lando lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I like my bones intact, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes. “Coward.”

“Smart,” he corrects, his lips curving into a smirk before he kisses you—slow, sweet, and lingering, the kind that makes you forget about the cold entirely.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your waist.

“I don’t get how you’re not freezing,” he mutters, pulling you even closer.

“Years of training in the snow,” you say with a small smile. “And maybe the fact that you’re a human heater helps.”

Lando hums, clearly content. “I like being useful.”

“You are.” You brush your lips against his cheek. “In more ways than one.”

He grins at that, squeezing your sides playfully. “Good. Because I plan on being your personal cheerleader forever.”

You shake your head with a laugh before standing up, grabbing your snowboard. “Alright, since you won’t come with me, at least wait here. I have one more run, and then we can go back to the cabin.”

Lando groans dramatically. “Fine. But only if there’s hot chocolate involved.”

You wink. “And extra marshmallows.”

His face lights up, and before you can turn away, he grabs your wrist, pulling you in for another kiss—this one a little deeper, a little more lingering.

“Now go,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours for a brief second. “I’ll be here. Always.”

With one last smile, you strap your board on and push off, knowing that, no matter how many slopes you conquer, nothing will ever compare to the warmth of Lando’s love.

And later, when the two of you are back at the cabin, tangled up under thick blankets, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your skin as the fireplace crackles softly in the background—you realize that some kinds of warmth have nothing to do with the temperature outside.

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