#egg war summary

[lilhawkeye3]

A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman

Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.

Let's start with the first visual we get:

UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic. (Edit: and please look up his history of civil rights activism, he was on the FBI watchlist and even a pallbearer at MLKJr’s funeral.)

Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:

THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.

This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.

Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.

The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more. *Edit to add, the first part of this lyric is in reference to the Black Liberation Song "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" by Gil Scott-Heron. Thanks to everyone who mentioned that.

THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do. *Edit to add: they also all piled out of a clown car. The US flag in a clown car? Brilliant.

The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."

TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.

STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...

DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.

NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.

SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.

ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...

"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.

So what does Kendrick say?

IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.

40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.

THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.

NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes (read: Drake harassed the hell out of her). *Edit: she was also fined at the 2012 Olympics for crip walking in celebration at Wimbledon.

TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!

GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…

In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you. part 2

If you enjoyed this, check this post out too!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ sylus

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when a small, warm weight landed on your stomach. You let out a soft groan, blinking sleep from your eyes as a tiny giggle filled the air.

“Mama! Wake up!”

A little girl with curly white hair and big red eyes beamed down at you, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. Your daughter, Elena, was already full of energy despite the early hour.

You reached out, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s too early… come cuddle with us instead.” You said as you hugged your daughter to your chest and laid on your side, using her like a small warm plushie to hold

Elena pouted, but before she could argue, a deep, gravelly voice interrupted.

“Excuse me, little one,” Sylus drawled from behind you, his arm tightening possessively around your waist. “I believe your mother is mine in the mornings.”

Elena huffed, climbing over you to plant herself between the two of you, effectively shoving Sylus away. “No! Mama is mine today.”

Sylus narrowed his dark red eyes, feigning insult. “Oh? And what am I supposed to do, hmm? Spend the morning alone?” He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his white, tousled hair. “How tragic.”

You smothered a laugh as Elena folded her arms, her tiny frame full of defiance. “You have all day with Mama. It’s my turn now! Get out of bed dada”

Sylus turned to you, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Sweetheart, tell our dear daughter that monopolizing her mother isn’t allowed.”

You stretched with a soft yawn, brushing your fingers through Elena’s soft curls before placing a hand on Sylus’ chest. “Sorry, love, but she does have a point.”

Sylus let out an exaggerated groan, flopping onto his back. “Betrayed. By my own wife and child.”

Elena giggled and latched onto your arm. “Come on, Mama! Let’s go make pancakes!”

Before you could even respond, she was already tugging you out of bed. You barely had time to throw on a robe before being dragged toward the kitchen.

Sylus followed at a much slower pace, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you. His lips twitched in amusement as Elena enthusiastically handed you ingredients, most of which you didn’t even need.

“Flour, eggs, milk,” you listed off, cracking an egg into the bowl.

“And chocolate chips!” Elena added excitedly.

“That wasn’t part of the original plan,” you teased, ruffling her hair.

“But Mama, chocolate makes everything better,” she argued.

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Chocolate it is.”

Elena cheered as you mixed the batter, and soon enough, the scent of warm pancakes filled the kitchen. You plated them neatly, setting them on the table, but before you could sit down, Sylus was already pulling you into his lap.

“Alright, little one,” he said, smirking at Elena. “I was patient. Now it’s my turn.”

Elena gasped. “No fair! You get Mama all the time!”

Sylus held you close, his lips brushing against your temple. “Exactly. Which is why I should get the first bite.”

Elena narrowed her eyes before suddenly grabbing a piece of pancake and stuffing it into your mouth. “Mama gets first bite!”

You nearly choked, laughing as Sylus sighed in mock defeat.

The morning continued like this, the two of them constantly bickering over who got more of your attention. If Sylus wrapped an arm around you, Elena would climb onto your lap. If Elena got you to braid her hair, Sylus would find a way to pull you into a slow, lingering kiss—only for Elena to dramatically cover her eyes and shout, “Eww, Papa!”

It was an endless tug-of-war, but one thing was clear: you were deeply, endlessly loved.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Caleb

The day had been long. Between running errands, cleaning up after a particularly chaotic dinner, and making sure your 4-year-old son had actually bathed instead of just splashing water everywhere, all you wanted was to crawl into bed and melt into your pillows.

But, of course, fate—or rather, the two most stubborn males in your life—had other plans.

Just as you pulled back the covers, ready to slide under the sheets, a little whirlwind of energy burst into the room. Your son, Noah, padded in with a determined expression, his favorite stuffed apple plush clutched in one arm.

“I’m sleeping with Mama tonight!” he declared, climbing onto the bed as if he owned it.

You sighed, already sensing the inevitable battle brewing.

“Noah,” you started patiently, “you have your own bed, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want my own bed,” he pouted, scooting closer. “I wanna sleep here with you.”

Before you could formulate a response, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and in walked Caleb, still in his colonel uniform, just back from the fleet, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on the intruder in his domain.

“Noah,” Caleb said, voice edged with authority. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Noah puffed out his little chest, glaring up at his father. “I’m sleeping with Mama.”

Caleb raised a brow. “No, you’re not. I sleep with Mama.”

“Well, not tonight.”

“Yes, tonight.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Are you two seriously about to argue over this?”

Neither of them responded. Instead, they were locked in a silent battle of wills, Caleb towering over Noah, while Noah, unafraid, jutted his chin out defiantly.

“I got here first,” Noah announced.

“I’ve been here for years,” Caleb countered, placing a knee on the bed as if preparing for battle.

Noah tightened his grip on his stuffed apple plush. “Mama likes cuddling with me more!”

“Excuse me?” Caleb scoffed. “I am a very good cuddler. The best.”

“No, you’re too big! You take up all the space!”

“I do not—”

“You do! And you snore!”

Caleb looked personally offended. “I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do,” you cut in, unable to hold back your smirk.

Caleb’s mouth fell open, betrayal clear on his face. “Sweetheart—”

“It’s true, Daddy,” Noah added smugly. “You sound like a big grumpy bear.”

Caleb scowled. “I am a big grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a tiny bed hog.”

Noah gasped dramatically. “I am not a bed hog!”

You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. watching the two go on and on “Alright, enough.”

Both of them snapped their heads toward you, watching as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“You two fight over me every single night. And honestly?” You sighed, dragging yourself out of bed. “I’m sick of it.”

Caleb and Noah blinked.

“What?” Noah asked innocently.

You grabbed two pillows from the bed, shoving one into Caleb’s hands and the other into Noah’s tiny arms.

“You two can take this argument somewhere else.” You gestured toward the door. “Both of you—out.”

Noah’s jaw dropped. “But—”

Caleb furrowed his brows. “You’re kicking me out, too?”

“Yes. Out. Both of you.”

“But Mama—”

“No buts! I am going to sleep alone, in peace, without a four-year-old climbing all over me or a six-foot colonel trying to wrap himself around me like an octopus.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Go fight over who gets the couch.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

Noah smirked. “Guess I’ll get the couch, then.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Caleb shot back.

You sighed and physically pushed both of them toward the door. “Out.”

Noah whimpered. “Mama, wait—”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead before turning to Caleb. “And you—” You gave him a pointed glare. “Good. Night.”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased with the outcome. “This is mutiny.”

“Call it whatever you want, Colonel, but it’s happening.”

With that, you shut the door in their faces.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“This is your fault,” Caleb muttered.

“I still get the couch,” Noah replied smugly.

You grinned, sinking into your blissfully empty bed, enjoying the first real night of uninterrupted sleep in weeks.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Rafayel

Life with Rafayel was never dull. Being married to one of the most renowned artists in the world came with its own set of challenges—his erratic work schedule, his bursts of inspiration at ungodly hours, and, of course, the ever-looming threat of someone discovering his biggest secret.

Rafayel wasn’t just a celebrated painter, sculptor, and occasional recluse. he was also a Lemurian—a species of deep-sea mermen that most humans believed to be myths. Lemurians were creatures of the ocean, rarely venturing into the human world.

But Rafayel had. He had chosen to leave behind the waves, to live among humans, to build a life with you. And together, you had a daughter—little Seraphina—who had inherited his everything. His attitude, his stupidly handsome face shape, his genes left nothing for yours to take root in seraphina.

And now, the two of them were bickering. Again.

You rubbed your temples, exhaling deeply. “Can you two please stop fighting over me for five minutes?”

Rafayel, ever the dramatic artist, was sprawled on the couch with a faux-wounded expression, his purple hair draped over his face. “I cannot believe this betrayal,” he murmured. “I, your devoted husband, have been abandoned.”

Seraphina, all four years of attitude and tiny hands on her hips, stood her ground. “You had Mama all day! It’s my turn!”

Rafayel gasped, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, little guppy, but I believe it is always my turn.”

Seraphina pouted, her violet eyes—exactly like her father’s—narrowing. “Mama played with me first.”

“Mama kissed me first this morning.”

“Well—Mama let me sit on their lap while we ate breakfast.”

“Mama lets me sleep in the bed next to them.”

You groaned. “Rafayel, she’s four.”

“And?” He arched a perfect brow. “She must learn that a wife’s love belongs to her husband first.”

Seraphina huffed, turning to you with pleading eyes. “Mama, tell Daddy he’s being mean.”

You sighed, knowing full well that no answer would satisfy either of them.

Rafayel rolled onto his side, reaching a hand toward you as if on his deathbed. “My love, tell our traitorous offspring that no one can replace me in your heart.”

“I am not a traitor!” Seraphina stomped a tiny foot. “Mama loves me so much! Even more than you!”

Rafayel sat up instantly. “Oh, now that’s where you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right!”

“You wish, little one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering how your life had come to this—caught between two extremely possessive, competitive merfolk.

Seraphina suddenly latched onto your leg, wrapping herself around it like a tiny octopus. “Mine,” she declared.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Seraphina stuck her tongue out at him.

Rafayel smirked. “Well then.” He cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

In one swift motion, he scooped Seraphina up, ignoring her protests as he carried her toward the glass doors leading to the backyard’s infinity pool—built deep enough to accommodate his real form.

Seraphina’s eyes widened. “Wait—WAIT! What are you doing?!”

Rafayel grinned mischievously. “Throwing you back into the sea where you belong, little guppy.”

“NOOO!”

You laughed, watching as Seraphina clung to her father’s arm, suddenly realizing her fight for dominance might have backfired.

“Say it,” Rafayel teased, holding her above the water. “Say I win.”

Seraphina squirmed. “Never!”

Rafayel raised a brow. “Alright then—”

“MAMA HELP!”

You folded your arms, amused. “This seems like a father-daughter matter.”

Seraphina gasped at your betrayal. “Mama, no!”

Rafayel gave you a smug look. “Oh, so now you need me, hmm?”

Seraphina groaned dramatically before finally giving in. “Fiiiiiine. You win.”

Rafayel set her back on the ground, ruffling her purple hair. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed but then immediately clung to your side again. “But Mama still loves me more.”

Rafayel scoffed. “Dream on, little guppy.”

You sighed, shaking your head. This was your life now.

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[justmymindandstuff]

crushing worry - Cregan Stark x TargaryenReader

summary: You are happy and in love with your husband Cregan Stark. The birth of your first child is imminent. But something changes in Cregan and suddenly you feel overwhelmed by his protectiveness. Your husband seems to have forgotten that you are a dragon princess, you are not made out of glass.

words: 4.980

warnings: bad communication/ miscommunication, angst, arguments, kind of domestic violence (reader hits Cregan), kind of canon typical misogyny, talking about death, talking about death in childbirth.

a/n: Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and described with black hair// no use of Y/N// english is not my first language // not proofread// AO3

have fun and be kind 🧡

requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist

You run across the snow-covered courtyard of Winterfell, snowflakes caught in your black hair, your cheeks are slightly red from the cold.

Fortunately, you are not freezing, the blood of the dragon flows in your veins, and this blood flows hot, so the cold doesn't bother you.

You are looking for your husband, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell. A raven from your mother from King's Landing has arrived with the announcement that she will send him fifty men for the Wall. You know that Cregan will be pleased about it. Equipping the Wall with capable men is important for the security of the North and all the Seven Kingdoms.

You walk past the stables and through the archway of the inner wall, and finally, you see Cregan. He is currently coordinating the arrival of a new firewood shipment.

You can't help but have to smile everytime you see him. Your heart is full of love, sometimes you can't believe how happy you are.

When you flew to Winterfell with your dragon your task was to win the North for your mother's claim, just as your twin brother Jace was supposed to do with the Vale. But when you first saw the Lord of Winterfell, it was love at first sight. His character, kind, honorable, warm-hearted, only made you fall harder. And fortunately for you, Cregan felt the same way. Before you set off south again to fight the war, you took him as your husband in the Godswood of Winterfell. Your mother was angry after learning the news but only for five minutes, then you reminded her of her sudden marriage to Daemon and assured her that you married out of love. Rhanyra then agreed to your marriage. It was too late anyway, Cregan and you had made your vows before the old gods and the marriage was consummated. After the war was won, you and your husband returned to Winterfell. Every day you are grateful to all the gods for your happiness.

Your hand rests on the slight swelling of your belly, in a few months you would bring your child into the world. You hope for a girl, Cregan doesn't care, Rickon of course wishes for a little brother.

"My Lord." you call across the courtyard to get Cregans attention. He turns at the sound of your voice, you walk towards him.

"My Lady." he greets you with a warm smile and reaches for your hand. His eyebrows knit together. "You are ice-cold, sweetheart." he reaches for the hood of your cloak and pulls it over your head. "Go back inside."

"I don't even notice the cold," you wave it off. "Besides, I have a letter from my mother." you hold out the roll to him. He takes it and quickly reads the few lines.

"She sends 50 men and a dragon egg north." he summarizes, but his voice sounds more annoyed than cheerful.

"Those are great news." you squeeze his hand. "Men trained in King's Landing and a dragon egg for the cradle. I was already worried that Mother wouldn't allow me to continue the family tradition so far away from King's Landing, but our child will have their own hatchling and bond with a dragon, just like me and Abraxas did." you beam at Cregan. His mouth twists into a narrow smile and he nods, as if he would acknowleg the blacksmith's report.

"Are you mad at me?" you ask, a bit confused by his weak reaction. For weeks, he has been worried because just before winter, he can hardly find men in the north who are willing to took the black.

At your question, his gaze immediately softens. "No, of course not." he replies quickly, then looks around and waves a guard over. "I just have a few things to take care of, and while this news is pleasant, it's not so important that you had to show it to me immediately. You shouldn´t have come out just for that."

You roll your eyes a bit annoyed. You know that your mother's answer wasn't super important, you were just happy and wanted to share the good news with Cregan, he's been a bit tense in the past few weeks. "That didn't cause me any trouble. I just thought you'd be happy." you say.

"I am happy about the good news." he assures you once more, stroking your cheek, the leather of his gloves cold, yet you lean into his touch. Cregan kisses your forehead gently. "However, please go back inside now, it's too cold for you and the child."

You have to suppress a laugh, nevertheless you are still touched by his concern. "Our little puppy is doing well," you say and place your hand back on your belly. As if to confirm, you notice the child in your belly moving slightly.

"Don't argue with me." his voice is a bit harsher this time, it's the tone of Lord Stark. He rarely speaks to you like that. He turns to the guard, who has dutifully awaited his lord's orders. "Please escort Lady Stark inside, and make sure she stays there."

Your jaw tightens slightly and you want to complain, but you stop yourself. Cregan would be furious if you would question his authority and discuss his orders in public. Still you wrench your hand from his, spin around dramatically, and stomp back inside. Just because you don't argue doesn't mean he shouldn't notice that you're angry.

In the evening, Cregan acts as if nothing happened. You are too tired to argue, so you decide to forget about the incident in courtyard and blame it on Cregan having a bad day.

You also don't have time to argue with your husband over such trivial matters. You have duties as Lady Stark. And your little puppy needs more and more of your energy. You get tired more quickly, need more breaks. Today your bed looks much more inviting than the letters and scrolls on your desk, but Winterfell's household doesn't manage itself. Your original plan was to only answer a few letters today, but once you sat down, you just kept going, your quill scratches across the parchment, you are engrossed in your work and don't even notice how time flies. When your husband opens the door, you flinch in surprise.

"My love, what are you doing here so early?" you ask, surprised, Cregan unfortunately rarely finds time to retreat before sunset to your shared chambers. He laughs warmly and shakes the slush off his boots before he takes off his cloak and steps into the warmth of your chambers.

"My sweetheart, the day is almost over." he laughs, comes over to you, kisses your forehead first, then places his finger under your chin and kisses your lips. Butterflies are swirling in your stomach and a smile comes to your lips.

"Oh. I was so engrossed in the work," you say, leaning back a little in your chair. Cregan laughs warmly again as he lays down his sword and takes his place at the fire. He pours himself and you a glass of wine.

"Why are you working here?" asks Cregan, he doesn't like it when you sit here and word. The private chambers are not for work he often says. At the sound of his father's gentle voice, the child in your belly moves and kicks vigorously. You exhale heavily to ease the pain, but the joy of the life under your heart and the firm kick is far more greater than your pain, so you don´t mind. You place your hand on your belly. When you look back at Cregan, he has slightly raised his eyebrows, looking at you with concern.

"I swear I just wanted to write a letter to my mother, but the Maester came and brought me the books I needed, so I thought I'd save myself the trip." you shrug, stand up a bit awkwardly, and want to go to Cregan to at least spend the last hours of this day with your beloved. Another strong kick from your child makes you stop and lean slightly on the table. Cregan is on his feet, the chair scrapes across the stone floor as his suddenly move, and you grimace slightly at the sound.

"Is everything alright?" his voice sounds tense. Quickly, you give him a smile.

"Yes. Your child only kicks like a wildling." Cregan starts to laugh, even though the worry doesn't completely disappear from his face. In the past few weeks, that has never happened. He has been walking around with that serious expression all the time. It annoys you a little. Why can't he be completely happy about your child? You push the thoughts aside and want to end the day and sit with him, but your gaze lingers on the stack of books. You should return them first, you know yourself. If you don't take care of it immediately, the books would still be lying here in weeks. And Winterfell's Maester is too respectful to bother his Lady Stark over a few books, even if he needes them.

So you lift the stack of books to bring them back to the Maester. Cregan is immediately by your side.

"I will take them." he says, already reaching for the books.

"It's fine." you laugh and try to push past him.

"You shouldn't lift so heavy."

Heavy? It's just a few books? A little annoyed, you push Cregan's hands away. "I told you, it's fine. I can handel a few books."

"I know you can. But you don't have to. Besides, the way up to the tower is long, and the outer stairs are probably frozen. I'll take care of it. Please, Lady Wife. Sit down at the fire, put your feet up and wait here. I'll be right back."

His concern almost brings tears to your eyes, he takes the books a bit to firmly out of your hand and nods towards the fireplace.

You admit defeat. "Very well, my Lord Husband," you say, kissing him on the cheek and sitting down in your seat. The warm fire makes you relax immediately, you stretch your legs and enjoy your wine while your husband sets off to take the books where they belong.

The last few days have been beautiful, the sun even provides a bit of warmth, and the sky is brilliantly blue. Of course, you took advantage of the good weather and went to the village with Rickon. At the market, everyone is happy to see their Lady Stark and little Rickon, the merchants are friendly, the women give you tips for your pregnancy and birth, and Rickon gets a new set of wooden toys. He runs through the stalls, and you slowly follow him. You notice that everyday tasks are becoming more exhausting due to your growing belly. But even these small inconveniences do not dampen your excitement for your baby. You talk to the villagers about their worries, whether there are any problems that you or Cregan can help with, or even just about how the winter flowers are starting to bloom or how the last hunt went well so the meat prices are low. When you have looked at all the market stalls, you take Rickon's hand again and head back to Winterfell. A few meters before the drawbridge, he lets go of your hand, gives you a light nudge, and runs off.

"Catch me," he calls out as his short legs carry him away slowly. You have to laugh, wait a moment, and then start the chase. You caught up with him in just a few steps and slowed your pace again, pretending to have trouble catching him. The boy laughs joyfully and runs in a zigzag to escape you.

"You are just too fast." you call out, feigning annoyance.

"Yes, as fast as your dragon mama." Rickon calls over his shoulder and then runs onto the castle courtyard, the guards immediately stepping out of the way for the heir of Winterfell. You run after him, catch up to him, lift him up while running, and spin both of you in circles. Rickon laughs in your arms, and when you set him back on the ground, he stumbles slightly. When he finds his balance again, he whirls around to you.

"You cheated." he shouts.

"No, you just lost," you laugh. The little boy pouts, his competitive nature coming to the surface. He jumps forward, lightly hits you on the stomach, and shouts loudly.

"You are it again." but before he can run off again, Cregan's voice rings over the courtyard.

"RICKON!" the tone makes not only the addressed boy flinch but you too. Cregan storms across the yard, his gaze consumed with rage. Rickon recoils in shock, and you quickly wrap an arm around him, pulling him close, ready to protect him from his father's unusual anger. Yes, Cregan has a rough parenting style as a Northerner, but he is never unfair and, above all, he rarely shouts. He stands in front of you, turning directly to Rickon. "You can't play so wildly! You have to be careful and above all, it is never under no circumstances allow to hit your mother." his voice is still too loud. You notice how Rickon starts to tremble.

"It was nothing. We played tag, he doesn´t hit me." you try to calm Cregan.

He turns his gaze towards you. "I explained to him that he shouldn't play with you so wildly, preferably not at all anymore!" you are glad that he at least doesn't scream anymore, still he makes you angry.

"But husband..." you start again. You can't understand his extreme reaction. You know he doesn't like it when Rickon misbehaves, but Cregan mustn't forget that the boy is still young. He must be allowed to be a child, even if he will one day be the Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan interrupts you. "Rickon, go to your chambers, you will stay there until dinner."

"Yes, Father," he says, the boy quietly, turns away, and runs inside; you heard the tremor in his voice.

"You were so strict," you say, crossing your armes before your chest. You trie to control your rising anger.

"No. He didn't follow my instructions, he must be punished." Cregan waves it off, comes to you, and gently puts his arm around you. But you are angry with him, so you push him away. Your husband looks at you in surprise.

"He can't play tag anymore? What kind of stupid instruction is that?"

Cregan looks down at you, slightly shakes his head. "Of course he can play tag. Just not with you."

You stare at him in confusion. What's wrong with him? "For what reason?"

"It's too dangerous. Rickon doesn't know that he has to be careful not to hurt you and the baby. "

"Cregan, it doesn't make any sense what you're saying..." you begin. You are very sure that Rickon can indeed gauge his strength in relation to you, and besides, it's not like the boy is constantly jumping on your belly while playing. You were just playing tag, for the gods' sake. You absolutely cannot understand Cregan's problem. You want an explanation for his behavior, but Cregan is talking over you.

"Please, sweetheart, go now and rest. It's not good for you to be running around outside." he kisses your forehead, pulls your cloak a little tighter around you, and then turns away to return to his work.

You stay behind in the yard and just stare after him. Anger and frustration rise within you. You don't need any damn protectors watching your every step. You are pregnant, not sick. Cregan acts as if every step costs you so much strength that you endanger the baby. And then treating Rickon like that? Why is he so strict with the boy? Annoyed with your husband, you still follow his instructions and go inside, heading straight to the children's wing. Rickon is supposed to stay in his room, but that doesn't mean you can't be there too and read him something.

Cregan's behavior is getting stranger and stranger.

As you wanted to take a bath, the water was only lukewarm, the maid told you that Lord Stark had given this instruction. You know that she is only following her lord's orders, so you don't argue. You bring it up with Cregan, but he waves it off and says the Maester recommended a lower bathing temperature, also because you always bathe in nearly boiling water. You are of the blood of the dragon, of corse your bath is hot.

Three days later, two new guards and a squire suddenly appear at your door in the morning. Lord Stark has given the order that we must accompany you, always. Not even a damn letter can you receive without the squire jumping forward and holding it for you.

Cregan, of course, won't listen to reason. Everything is for your safety, so you can rest. It´s his favorite argument now: you have to rest. You can't hear that word anymore!

You're doing fine! Yes, it's exhausting to carry your ever-growing belly around with you, but it's not like you have to climb the wall up and down every day. And your beloved husband won´t listen to you. It´s make you so angry that you want to scream at him, but everytime you raise your voice Cregans begs you to calm down and rest.

Today, you finally managed to sneak away from your guards and hopped on for a flight on Abraxas 's back. The cold wind blows in your face, your heartbeat synchronizes with Abraxas 's even wingbeats, and as you both break through the cloud cover, you finally feel free again. Your Dragon lets out a cheerful whistle and turns directly into the wind, gliding smoothly through the sky and you can't help but laugh. The child in your belly kicks hard and moves. You are sure that it is also happy. After all, your child, like you, is of the blood of the dragon, and being here on dragonback is as natural for you as breathing. You take a longer route, but before noon, you land Abraxas back on the outer wall of Winterfell. You can almost hear Cregan's voice in your ear. Just don't get her used to it, when she gets bigger she'll tear down the whole keep. But now, your dragon is still young enough, and you are still angry with your husband.

Abraxas bends her front leg deeply, lowers her body more to the side, so that despite your big belly, you have no trouble sliding off your saddle and landing gently on the ground. Your dragon turns its head towards you, and you stroke its nose. Your child kicks hard again and you flinch slightly. Carefully, Abraxas nudges your hand, bringing a smile to your face.

"Don't worry, my girl, it won't be long until we fly together, you, me, and the little puppy"

Anticipation spreads within you, even though you can't get your big pup Cregan to climb onto a dragon's back, your child will be a Targaryen, a dragon rider.

This very husband is running towards you. He seems to be very angry with you. At least his face is contorted with rage and his steps are heavy as he storms towards you.

"Are you out of your mind?" he roars. You take a step back, Abraxas bares his teeth as Cregan approaches.

"The wall is still intact," you say, rolling your eyes.

"I don´t give a fuck about this wall right now. A dragonflight? In your condition? Don't you realize what could have happened?"

A good wife would have taken a deep breath, calmed her husband, and perhaps even apologized for the circumstances. But today you are not a good wife. You've had enough now. Your frustration reaches its boiling point and you scream in anger. "Nothing could have happened. What is that even supposed to mean? I'm not a little child that you have to coddle."

Of course, heads are turning in your direction; it is rare for Lord and Lady Stark to argue, and even more so in public. No, normally the people of Winterfell have to settle for the servants' gossip, but not today. You don't care how many people are listening to you.

"You go inside right now, and your dragon will be chained up." yells your husband and waves a guard over.

"How dare you!" you shout.

"I dare because a dragon flight is too dangerous. You might not understand it now, but I'm doing this for your own good."

You snort contemptuously. "I won't let anyone stop me from dragon riding." you stomp your foot.

"You will obey my commands." Cregan trembles with rage, clenches his jaw, and does not take a single step back. Not even when Abraxas hisses behind you and flaps her wings, causing the snow around you to swirl.

"By what right does the wolf command over the dragon?" you cry, hot rage inside your veins.

"By the right of the old gods and the new, and every damned Valyrian god. I am your husband, you carry my child in your womb. You do what I say. And I said get inside and no more dragon flying. I'm not going to discuss this. You either go inside voluntarily or by force. choose."

You notice tears welling up in your eyes, he has never spoken to you like this before. Never command you like this. What is happening to him? What is happening to you beloved husband. Abrax behind you roars angrily, rears up, and you feel her take a breath to set all of Winterfell ablaze.

"lykirī Abraxas." your Dragon obeys, so you turn to the guards. "Whoever touches my dragon will burn." you say, your voice sounds weak, without another look at your husband you pass by him and go to your chambers.

The door doesn't even close properly before it's pushed open again. You know it's Cregan. But you don't turn around. The door slams shut, silence spreads. You feel hot tears running down your cheek, you can't suppress a sob.

"Sweetheart." you feel his hand on your shoulder, his voice is as sweet as honey. As if you had made a mistake, as if you were the one who had to ask for forgiveness. Anger boils up again, you spin around. Your hand hits his cheek as hard as you can. Cregan flinches, even though you're sure it hurt you more than him. You have to open and close your fist a few times, but the pain still throbs. Cregan's jaw tightens, yet he swallows his anger. "Sweetheart, please, you've already gotten worked up enough. You need to .."

"If you say rest now, I'll kill you. I don't need to rest. I'm doing well. I am healthy. I don't understand what's wrong with you. I can hardly recognize you anymore." you scream at him. Frustration, anger, despair rise up inside you.

You start pacing back and forth, Cregan's eyes follow you, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wants to say something, but you don't let him.

"I am not a damsel in distress. I am a Targaryen of the blood of the dragon. I do not need you to watch over me like a hen. And I certainly won't let anyone forbid me from riding my dragon." you roar angrily.

You never would have thought that you would ever have such a discussion with your husband. Your heart breaks a little at the thought.

Cregan, however, does not back down. He doesn't scream, but his voice is full of suppressed anger and trembles slightly.

"It's the best for you. I am still your husband, and if I believe it is right for you to stay inside and be safe, then you have to do it."

Annoyed, you groan, "I'm safe with Abraxas too." frustrated, you throw your hands in the air. Why doesn't he want to understand that?

"No! No, you're not," he suddenly yells again, but now there's something different in his voice, not pure anger but despair. "You must understand that you are only safe when you rest and gather your strength. Only then can you survive. You have to survive."

You stop in the middle of your movement, have to blink a few times as your brain processes the information. Your anger dissipates as you finally understand where his strange behavior comes from, everything falls into place. Cregan is not angry, and he is not just afraid. Cregan is panicking.

"You..." you have to swallow, tears form in your eyes. You look at Cregan, but he stares at the ground in front of you. "Cregan, look at me." he hesitates for a moment longer and then looks at you, his whole body trembling, tears welling up in his eyes, his breath quickening, and he chews on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from crying. "You think I'm going to die in childbirth." your voice is no louder than a whisper.

Cregan takes two quick steps towards you, open his armes as if to pull you into a hug, but hesitates. You take the final step and pull him into a tight embrace. Your hands caress his neck as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, you feel tears on your skin, hear his quiet sobs.

"I couldn't do it. I can't do it again. Arra, when she died, I thought I could never be happy again. But then I saw you and I immediately fell in love. I knew this was my second chance at happiness. And sweetheart, I am happier than I have ever been in my life." you can hardly understand him, his voice trembling so much. Carefully, he separates himself from you. Wipes his face. "I can't lose you too. I would die."

You take a deep breath, trying to hold back your own tears. Why didn't he share his worries with you? His entire behavior suddenly makes sense. He just had to talk to you.

"You won't lose me. I will not die. I am healthy and strong," you try to ease his worry. You would like to promise him, but you can't.

"That was Arra too, yet she still died. Please, if you rest, then you will have enough strength."

"I have the strength. I can survive birth."

He shakes his head slightly. "And what if not?"

You suppress a sigh, have to try another way. "When you ride onto the battlefield, what do you say to your men? Do you promise them to survive?"

Cregan has to blink a few times, he is confused by the sudden change of topic, you can see it in his eyes. "Of course not. I can't do that."

"Are you sure you can survive every fight?"

"No, I'm not."

"Nevertheless, you ride out to battle." "

Of course. It is my duty."

"And the birthing bed is my duty. My battlefield. And trust in me, husband, that I will survive this battle. I understand your concern. Believe me, I really understand you, but it doesn't help me if you lock me up. I am a Targaryen princess. I am strong and I have my bond with my dragon from which I can draw strength. I have enough strength and I can fight if there are problems during childbirth. I will fight for you, for our child, for Rickon. I will not leave you alone. I will not die. But I need you by my side. You have to support me." carefully, you place a hand on his cheek. Cregan presses his forehead against yours, takes a deep breath.

"I can't stop worrying," he whispers.

"You don't have to. Neverless, don't let your worry crush you, don't let your worry crush us."

"I'm sorry. I just thought, if you rest." his voice is trembling again. You silence him with a kiss.

"I will rest. But I will not let you locke me away."

Cregan nods. "I should have talked to you. I'm sorry. I was just so paralyzed by my fear. I dreamed of your death, over and over again."

You have to swallow. Your heart breaks at the thought that he is suffering so much.

"It's okay. You have to believe in me."

"I believe in you," he says quickly.

"Then also believe that I can survive. And promise me that you will never shut yourself off from me like that again. Cregan, I love you, but your behavior wasn´t okay. You can't treat me like this."

"I know. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

You nod, give him a smile, and take a deep breath. "I have a compromise. I will not ride dragons until the child is born, but in return, I will get my hot baths back." C

regan has to laugh quietly. "Bath as hot as you want, sweetheart." he concedes.

You kiss his lips again. "Next time, talk to me and don't act like a huge idiot."

"Yes my Lady I Promise." he leans down, kisses your lips as if it were your last kiss. "The worry won't go away, though."

"I know. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, until then I'll rest a bit and you try not to control everything. Deal?"

"Deal. I will support you from now on. I am by your side, all the time." it sounds like a vow.

Cregan keeps this vow, the rest of your pregnancy goes smoothly, and even though the birth is exhausting and the most painful thing you have ever experienced, you bring a healthy girl into the world while Cregan holds your hand.

[riddlesrizzler]

Daddy’s Day

summary: I love you the mostest. You make soup when I’m sick and do the best voices. You are my hero. characters: teen dad! mattheo. toddler daughter. uncle theo. uncle enzo warnings: none! just fluff word count: 899

It started with a whisper.

A secret, crayon-stained idea whispered into Uncle Theo’s ear while Mattheo was in the other room, muttering about lost socks and brushing tangled hair.

“I wanna make Daddy a surprise,” she said seriously, tugging on Theo’s sleeve. “For the Daddy Day.”

Theo blinked, crouching to her level. “You mean Father’s Day?”

She nodded. “The Daddy Day. With cake. And sparkles. And glue.”

Theo, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “I’m in.”

By Saturday morning, the plan was in full motion.

The moment Mattheo disappeared upstairs to shower, she launched into action-pajamas askew, wild curls bouncing, dragging her glitter-covered makeup case behind her like a suitcase of secrets. She stood on her tiptoes to open the front door when Theo arrived, his arms full of cake mix, mismatched baking supplies, and chaos in his grin.

“We’re making a sparkle cake,” Theo muttered as he stepped inside. “With blue icing, because apparently it needs to match his favorite color.”

Enzo showed up minutes later, sipping coffee and still half-asleep, only to be ambushed with hugs and a sticker on his forehead that read Best Grandma.

“I didn’t argue,” he said with a shrug, setting down a bag of sprinkles. “She seemed pretty sure.”

“She’s running the whole show,” Theo added, tying on a novelty apron that said Kiss the Cook, or Else.

And she was.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips, directing them like a general preparing for battle. She assigned roles-Theo was in charge of the oven, Enzo would help decorate the card, and she, of course, would handle the mixing.

With a whisk twice the size of her arm, she stirred the batter with fierce concentration, occasionally licking the spoon and smearing flour onto Theo’s apron like war paint.

“No shells in Daddy’s cake!” she scolded when Theo cracked an egg too fast and sent bits flying into the bowl. “Only sparkles.”

“Yes, Chef,” he replied solemnly.

The kitchen descended into beautiful chaos. Glitter floated through the air like dust. A trail of frosting led from the fridge to the table. The batter made it into the pan-but also onto the floor, the counter, and the back of Enzo’s hoodie.

Meanwhile, the card came to life under her sticky hands. She drew a picture of her and Mattheo holding hands beneath a wobbly rainbow, stick-figure versions of them with huge smiles and stars all around. Above it, in bright purple marker (and with Enzo’s help on the spelling), she wrote:

“Happy Daddy Day. I love you the mostest. You make soup when I’m sick and do the best voices. You are my hero.”

She sealed it with a dinosaur sticker and a kiss on the corner.

Mattheo padded downstairs just as Theo pulled the cake from the oven. His curls were damp, sticking to his forehead, and he was toweling off the back of his neck when he paused in the doorway.

The scene before him looked like the kitchen had exploded-and it kind of had.

Flour-coated counters. Glitter in the air. A spatula stuck to the fridge. And in the middle of it all was his daughter, cheeks flushed pink, apron slipping off one shoulder, card clutched proudly in both hands.

“Surpriiiiiise!” she squealed.

Mattheo blinked. “What... is all this?”

She ran to him full force, throwing her arms around his legs. “It’s Daddy Day! We made you cake and a card and Uncle Theo only burned one thing!”

Theo held up two fingers behind her back.

Mattheo crouched, carefully accepting the card she handed him. He stared at the crayon drawing. The sparkles. The way the "Y" in "Daddy" was drawn like a heart. The lump in his throat grew thick and unmovable.

She looked up at him, eyes shining. “You’re my best friend.”

He pulled her into his arms, card pressed against her back. “You’re mine, too.”

“Even when I spill?” she whispered.

“Especially then.”

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter two

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: your day off opens in a quiet, comforting way. errands and small talk feel almost enough to keep the world steady. but scattered signs—disturbed spaces, cryptic messages—suggest unseen eyes on you.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.9k

Your first day off in twelve shifts begins the way small miracles do: with sunlight, silence, and the smell of good food.  

You stand in the kitchen, spatula in hand, watching thick‑cut slices of bacon curl and pop in the cast‑iron. A pot of full black beans simmers beside them, spiced with a dash of chipotle, and sourdough toasts slowly in the oven. The kettle whistles; you pour the water over loose‑leaf tea—then carry everything to the coffee table.  

You sink into the couch, remote in one hand, plate balanced carefully on your knees. The History Channel flickers to life on the TV—some World War II documentary already mid-narration. A gravelly voice drones about tank strategies and bitter winters while you dig into your breakfast: bacon, beans, toast, and two sunny-side-up eggs. When the video ends you queue another—street‑food vendors in Oaxaca—then another—an eight‑hour lo‑fi playlist you’ll never finish. Breakfast stretches into morning, warm and unhurried, crumbs gathering on your pajama pants.  

By ten you’re upright, mug refilled, windows cracked to let in crisp river air. You sweep, wipe counters, toss sheets into the washer, and chase a rogue dust bunny across the hallway with the broom. Domestic quiet feels luxurious, almost decadent.  

Suddenly, a sharp voice drifts through the open window. “Again?! Seriously?!”  

You peer through the window and down into the courtyard. Mr. Donnelly—gray beard, Steelers cap—stands by the communal trash corral, hands on hips. Black bags are shredded, cardboard flaps torn open, and yesterday’s takeout containers scatter like confetti. The mess is worst around your bin: coffee grounds, chicken bones, a tea packet glinting foil in the sun.  

You lean on the sill. “Everything okay, Mr. D?”  

He looks up, exasperation softening when he sees you. “Raccoons, maybe cats. Little bandits had themselves a buffet!”  

“Roger. I’ll be right down.”  

You pull on jeans, an old hoodie, and rubber gloves. Downstairs you and Donnelly work side by side, scooping refuse into fresh bags, tying double knots. He mutters about city pest control; you crack jokes about raccoon Michelin ratings.  

Halfway through, he wipes his brow with a sleeve. “Hey—off topic. My daughter mailed me a bottle of turmeric pills, swears they’re good for my joints. That true, or is it Facebook nonsense?”  

“Turmeric can help a little with inflammation,” you say, cinching a bag, “but it’s no substitute for your prescription NSAID—and it can mess with blood thinners, so clear it with your doc first.”  

He nods—ever since you spotted that odd, pearly mole on his temple last year, the one he thought was just an age spot until the biopsy came back melanoma, he treats your word like gospel. “Good to know. She also sent me a link about apple‑cider‑vinegar cures, but I figured that was bunk.”  

“ACV is great on salad,” you dead‑pan, hefting another sack, “and terrible for curing anything else.”  

Donnelly barks a laugh. “Knew it.”  

It’s odd that only your bin is mauled, but he chalks it up to the smell of your bacon‑grease jar and you let the theory stand. When everything’s tidy you hose the concrete, angle the spray under the bins, and he grips your shoulder in a grateful squeeze.  

“You’ve saved my hide twice now—first the cancer, now the critter fiasco.”  

“Just doing the neighborhood rounds,” you reply, stripping off your gloves.  

“Still. I owe you. If you ever need a ride anywhere, you call me.”  

“Deal.”  

You thank him again, head back upstairs for a shower, and let the steam rinse away trash‑day grime—and the faint, nagging thought that raccoons rarely prefer bacon grease to everyone else’s leftovers.  

Upstairs, you kick off your shoes and head straight for the bathroom. Steam is already fogging the mirror by the time your hoodie hits the hamper. You stand under a scalding spray until your shoulders unknot, grit swirling away in ribbons. Shampoo, coconut body wash, a quick exfoliating scrub over the calluses that surgical gloves never let your skin forget—small rituals that reset your head as much as your body.  

Fresh out, you wrap yourself in an oversized towel, pad to the bedroom, and let the day‑off uniform choose itself. You massage lotion into your hands—cuticles forever dry from incessant scrubbing—then slip your phone from the charger to check the time.  

11:58. Perfect.  

In the kitchen you pack a canvas tote: your wallet, a couple of mesh produce bags, the prescription bottle that needs refilling, and that one pair of trousers with a busted hem for the tailor. You make a quick mental note to add swing by the thrift store to the list on your phone; you’ve been meaning to hunt for a new lamp for a good month now.  

Just as you bend to lace your boots, the phone buzzes. The screen lights with a photo: Jack's hand—broad knuckles, faint surgical nicks—cradling a steaming ceramic mug. Beneath, his caption:  

4‑minute steep, no boil. 👍  

A laugh snorts out before you can stop it. Jack, with the earnest proof‑of‑completion energy of a dad texting his first selfie. You thumb a reply:  

Gold star, Doctor. Welcome to the leaf side.  

Before you hit send, another buzz stacks above Jack’s thread. The preview text looks like a cat walked across a keyboard: ahsdklfhasdklfhaskl hi.

No name. No profile pic. A number you don’t recognize.  You swiftly block the number without opening the message.  Probably just spam.

Outside, the hallway smells of floor wax and warm laundry tumbling in the communal dryer—normal, safe scents. You lock the apartment, test the knob twice, then head for the stairwell, reciting the grocery list in your head like a mantra: eggs, oranges, rice and a sweet treat, maybe two or even three.

By the time your boots hit the sidewalk, sunlight on your face and the city’s Saturday hum around you, the odd text and the midnight raccoons have folded into a corner of your mind labeled later. Today is still yours, and you intend to spend every mundane minute of it.  

. . .  

When you swing past the Riverfront Market, the parking lot looks like a disaster drill—SUVs circling like vultures, carts jammed in every corral. You mutter a tactical retreat, swing back onto the boulevard, and promise yourself groceries will be the final stop. And so, you knock out your errands with efficiency: trousers dropped at the tailor (“two centimeters, blind hem, please”), prescription refilled, and lastly, a quick victory lap through the thrift shop where you score a tiffany desk lamp for five bucks.  

An hour later, you roll into the same lot to find it blissfully tamer—maybe half‑full, the Saturday rush already migrating to lunch. Perfect. You snag a space near the cart return, grab your canvas tote, and head inside.  

The produce aisle is crisp with the scent of misted greens when a familiar voice rings out behind you. “There she is—my favorite surgical saint!”  

You turn as Dana—her sharp blonde bob swinging over her shoulders—eases her cart into yours with a playful thunk. Her niece, a round‑cheeked toddler in star‑print leggings, claps at the gentle collision, squealing when you reach out to give her belly a quick tickle, thumb and forefinger pinching her marshmallow cheeks just enough to earn a giggle.  

“Hi there!” you laugh, straightening as you look up at a beaming charge nurse. “I thought your day off was reserved for sweatpants and true‑crime podcasts.”  

“Tiny tyrant wanted blueberries,” she says, ruffling the toddler’s hair. “And my daughter wanted thirty uninterrupted minutes, so Nana came to the rescue.” She drops a pint of berries into her cart, then peers into yours. “Real vegetables? Bakery bread? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a functioning adult.”  

“Shh,” you whisper. “I have a reputation to ruin.”

You angle your cart toward the tomatoes; Dana falls in beside you, matching your lazy pace. Her niece lunges for every bright piece of produce, and Dana buys temporary peace with a steady drip of bunny‑shaped crackers. Between grabs you trade life bulletins: you ask with genuine interest about how Benji’s woodworking side hustle is faring—“He finally sold that live‑edge coffee table,” Dana crows, “and now he thinks he’s Etsy royalty”—and she fires back, wanting to know if you ever sent in that application for the citywide cook‑off. You confess you chickened out at the last minute, then admit you’ve been taking weekend pottery instead, which makes her whoop loud enough to startle the toddler. “Look at us,” she says, snagging a ripe Roma, “two adrenaline junkies pretending we have hobbies like normal people.”

Halfway through the avocado display, Dana’s tone slips to mock‑casual. “So,” she drawls, examining you like a crystal ball, “rumor is our favorite former combat medic traded sludge‑grade coffee for—” she waves at the tea section up ahead “—fancy tea.”  

Heat blooms at your ears. “Abbot can drink whatever he wants.”  

Dana’s blue eyes sparkle. “ Just Abbot, huh? Funny—heard you called him Jack on the radio last week.”  

Your mouth opens, shuts. “Slip of the tongue.”  

“Sure,” she teases, easing a grin. “There’s a betting pool, you know. Odds on why the caffeine king is suddenly brewing leaves.”  

“You people will gamble on anything.”  

Dana parks the cart and crosses her arms. “Current theories: secret detox, midlife crisis, or”—she lifts her brows—“a certain pretty surgical nurse’s influence.”  

You snort. “Please. Nothing’s going on. Just two over‑worked fossils hydrating.”  

“Nothing she says, using his first name like a lullaby.” Dana winks. “Spill it.”  

You bag a head of romaine. “He’s…nice. Listens. That’s all.”  

“Uh‑huh. Well, when Jack starts smuggling in single‑origin Darjeeling, I’m cashing out.”  

Before you can reply, Dana’s niece launches a blueberry skyward; it splats harmlessly on Dana’s sleeve and she plucks it off, unfazed.

“Speaking of chaos—yesterday in The Pitt? One guy comes in with a nail‑gun through his boot and tries to livestream it. Robby has to confiscate the phone while Collins hunts for tetanus history. And—get this—one of the med‑students faints into the sharps bin. We’re calling him Porcupine now.”  

You laugh so hard you nearly drop your lettuce. “Porcupine! That’s savage, even for you.”  

“Pitt rules: if you pass out, you earn a nickname.” She scoops animal crackers into her niece’s hands. “Anyway, enjoy your day off. And remember, the house cut on the Abbot‑tea pool is twenty percent.”  

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing your cart. “But if you win, I’m taking half and buying enough loose‑leaf to convert the whole unit.”  

Dana salutes with a blueberry. “I’ll hold you to it, Jack‑whisperer.”  

You roll your eyes, but the name lingers sweet on your tongue as you both trundle toward the bakery—two nurses off‑duty, carts bumping, hearts lighter than any official chart will ever note.  

. . .  

By late afternoon you’re back in the apartment, juggling your against your ribs while your new lamp shines prettily near the entrance. You drop everything on the kitchen table and reach for your phone to tick “groceries” off the to‑do list—only to find three new notifications from the another strange number.

The previews are nonsense again—random consonants, stray emojis, one line that looks like Morse code smashed by a cat. You thumb through, equal parts annoyed and curious, until you hit the most recent message:  

Green suits you, pretty girl.  

A pulse hammers once, hard, in your throat.  

You set the phone down very carefully, as though it might explode, and listen—really listen—to the apartment. The fridge hums. Upstairs pipes clank. No footsteps, no voices, but suddenly every shadow feels occupied.  

Groceries forgotten, you sweep the place like you would on the trauma bay: bedroom closet first (just winter coats), bathroom cabinet (towels and aspirin), hall linen closet (sheets, vacuum hose), kitchen pantry (cereal boxes, nothing human). You kneel to peer under the bed, heart pounding like you sprinted stairs, then check every window lock twice, tugging to be sure.  

Finally you drag the spare dining chair across the floor and wedge its back under the doorknob—an old trick your grandmother swore by. It won’t stop a battering ram, but it buys time. Time feels like oxygen right now.  

Only then do you remember the milk on the counter, sweating through the carton. You shove perishables into the fridge on autopilot, not taking the care to arrange it like you usually would, hands trembling just enough to clink jars together. The phone stays facedown on the table, screen black, as though eye contact might invite more.  

Night falls, the apartment settles.

You brew the strongest sleep‑blend tea you own—valerian, chamomile, skullcap—and pour it into your largest mug. Scissors from the junk drawer go onto the vanity beside your bed, blades half‑open like a steel moth. Overreacting? Maybe. Under‑reacting because you haven’t called the police? Possibly. What you know is this: control is a ladder, and tonight every rung you can hold matters.  

You sip the smooth brew, crawl beneath the duvet, and stare at the ceiling until the tea’s heaviness drags your eyelids down. The phone is silenced, the chair braces the door, scissors glint in the street‑lamp glow. It isn’t much, but it’s a perimeter—thin, improvised, yours.  

You let the darkness take you, counting breaths, willing morning to hurry.

divider credit

[favbum]

Kuroo Tetsuro

🏐ྀི haikyuu headcanons

summary: random heacanons

cw: a lil suggestive

tone: headcanons

character list: kuroo tetsuro

.ᐟ doesn’t allow you to style his hair. very articulate when it comes to this area of his appearance. does enjoy a good scalp massage/scratch though (only on wash days).

.ᐟ doesn’t shave his body unless you ask. ofcourse, he doesn’t go all caveman on you but parts like: armpits, legs, mustache (he thinks he looks italian and finds it funny), he leaves alone

⇧“Babe, you think if I curled the mustaches ends and threw in an Italian accent, I’d slide?”

.ᐟ buys you lots and loads of jewelry. loves to see his s/o decked out in only the top-notch, luxury decor.

.ᐟ makes out with you rough. fast and beastly. that’s how he likes it. whether you can keep up or not doesn’t matter; he likes it sloppy too.♡︎ (picture blair and chuck’s hate sex)

.ᐟ if y’all were to have kids: 2 girls. he believes he has the best understanding over girls, women—females in general. but when he meets his two other angels? truly the most humbling experience. world war III whenever they fuss at him for being too “boyish” while playing dolls.

⇧“Honey—sweethearts! Sorry, lemme try again…” clears throat. Cue the most forced— and worst impression of Dijonay Jones ever.

.ᐟ sometimes gives you funny nicknames when he gets tired of the same-old-same-old. pet names like tiger, crazy pants, wildcat (wild kratts inspired)

⇧“Well lookey here… the tiger’s finally descended from their habitat.” he says, apron tightly tied around his neck, shirtless on purpose. It’s late morning now that you finally wake up; an aroma of crispy bacon and peppered eggs in the air.

.ᐟ big gossiper. many don’t know how he gets his information, but i firmly believe that he’s messy asf. not start-fights-between-girls messy but,

⇧“Hey…” he leans closer. “you heard what ___ and ___ did at the scrimmage last week? Yeah! ___ and ___’s still dating ___ as we speak. Crazy, I know.”

⇧and the gossip never has anything to do with him. shares with the entirely wrong people (bokuto for example: big mouth. couldn’t hold water even to save his life).

.ᐟ loves hamilton (?) [ i personally don’t know much about it but… ] he loves it. the storyline, acting, theme; doesn’t miss a beat. (my guess is because all the characters are so messy in that play💀)

.ᐟ he’s never been a slow kid. calls himself a prodigy, always has—ever since he learned the meaning of the word at the ripe age of 7yrs old. is he? …possibly. does he act like one? fuck no. the cocky bastard just doesn’t know when to put down a book sometimes. specially about science related topics.

#slowestuploaderoftheyear i literally have so many headcanon drafts.. and one unfinished fic. (cooked)🫩

divider cred. to @enchanthings

[junipersenvelope]

Sunday Morning

Alfie Buttle x Reader

Summary: A rainy Sunday Morning in the life of you and Alfie. Inspired by/based on the lyrics of Sunday Morning by Maroon 5.

Warnings: disgusting fluff (aka possible cringe warning), inaccurate AB dialogue??

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: hello ukyt tumblr!! my name is em and im soo excited to be writing for the ukyt scene. i have been watching creators like the sidemen and willne since 2017 (you can find a few posts of me rooting for will to hit 1mil on this account lol) but have never ventured into writing for this fandom. i haven’t written in 3 years so any feedback is absolutely welcomed. my requests are open as well if you enjoy this work! sorry for yapping, onto the one-shot. happy reading!

Sunday morning, rain is falling

Steal some covers, share some skin

Rain pattered against the windows in Alfie’s bedroom, the room seeming darker than usual with the gray skies. A thunderstorm had woken you up in the early hours of the morning, but Alfie slept through it. He could sleep through anything, even his alarms. One morning before a shoot his series of alarms went off around 10 times before you nearly resorted to smacking him with a pillow to get him up.

Eventually, thunder cracked just loud enough for Alfie to stir next to you. You sat up on your elbow, leaning closer to him just to admire his restful face. You quickly decided you were bored waiting up for him so you placed a gentle hand on his cheek, tenderly dragging your thumb back and forth to coax him out of his sleep. This caused his long eyelashes to flutter against his cheeks, trying to fight to stay asleep. His hazel eyes cracked open, meeting yours as a soft smile grew on his tired face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you whispered, leaning over to place a soft kiss to his other cheek.

“Good morning, love,” Alfie yawned, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand that was still on his face.

Noticing you had shimmied out of the covers in the night, he threw them back over you. In one fell swoop he grabbed your waist and pulled you flush to his side. Your leg rested comfortably over his waist, wanting to be as close to him as possible. His hand came up to your arm, fingers drawing slow circles as his lips came to your forehead.

But things just get so crazy

Living life gets hard to do

“I never wanna leave this bed,” he sighed, feeling content and relaxed with your body intertwined with his.

Since spring had transitioned to summer, Alfie had been so busy with brand trips, podcast shoots, and other videos that he hadn’t had much time to relax. Now that he was finally back at the grotto, he wanted to take full advantage of being able to do nothing, and especially being able to do nothing with you.

“Good thing you’ve got fuck all to do for the next week or so,” you giggled, squeezing your arms around his torso gently.

Your fingers tenderly caressed his soft skin, sending shivers down his spine. Just when he looked like he was about to fall back asleep, his stomach rumbled.

“You hungry, Alf?” You mocked, chuckling at the noise.

“Yeah, I am,” he exhaled with a small laugh. “And we’ve got about 1 egg and a monster in the fridge. Gonna have to ration like it’s war.”

Driving slow on Sunday morning

Eventually the two of you found yourselves out of bed, getting ready to head to the store for breakfast. You walked to the car, reaching for the passenger door handle, before a large hand beat you to it. You turned to look up at Alfie with a pleased grin.

“Feeling romantic today huh?” You teased as he opened the door.

You slid into the passenger seat allowing him to move into the door frame. He placed his hands on either side of your hips on the seat and leaned in close.

“Y’know I know how to treat my lady. Come on,” he winked, before leaning down to press a tender kiss onto your lips.

You shook your head at him before he moved away from your side and around the car to the drivers side, getting in quickly. The rain still poured, though it had lightened significantly from the storm earlier in the morning.

“Put a good tune on, love. Make it a movie y’know,” Alfie said in his classic joking voice, motioning to his phone on the middle console.

You scrolled Spotify before landing on Sunday Morning by Maroon 5. He seemed to like your pick by the way he began to sing along, his voice gradually getting louder as the song progressed. Driving with Alfie never lacked entertainment, as he always put on a grand performance to his playlist, singing his heart out to every tune.

He began to drive out of his small neighborhood, heading into town. His hand migrated into your lap, resting on your thigh. His fingers tapped along to the song gently, comforting you as you further settled into the car seat. Your hands got bored however, so you grabbed the hand holding your thigh and gave it a tight squeeze. Your other hand began to soothingly scratch at his forearm and he squeezed your hand three times.

The drive continued, rain still pelting down. You watched the town go by, including the grocery store.

“Uh Alf? You in there? We just passed the shop,” you inquired, wondering why he blew right past your destination.

“I’ve got something else in mind. Gonna be a great little motive, trust,” he said, looking over to you quickly with a small smile.

Before you knew it, you were pulling into a diner that you had been wanting to try. An appreciative smile pulled at your lips as you turned to look at Alfie, but he had already parked and hopped out to grab your door. He opened it with a grin, holding a hand out for you to grab.

“M’lady,” he joked, helping you out of the car.

As you sat in the quaint restaurant, you noticed the weather began to clear up. It seemed to know that your lazy Sunday was turning into something more. Alfie grabbed your hand over the table, intertwining his fingers with yours as he told you stories from all of the trips he went on.

“Only downfall was how far we were from Monaco, really. Like we weren’t properly in Nice or Monaco which was quite annoying. But other than that it was beautiful. Just wish you could’ve been there.”

He detailed his drunken adventures with Chip and Arthur in Monaco, his podcast experience with Arthur and Bach, and his most recent trip to Germany. He held your hand through each story, brushing his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, playing with your fingers, and squeezing gently during the most exciting parts of each.

Your breakfast eventually wrapped up and you began to head back. You stopped at the store for groceries, happy that you got to stock up on all of Alfie’s favorites, because it meant he would be home with you for a while.

Fingers trace your every outline,

Paint a picture with my hands

When you returned to the grotto, you began to put groceries away. You slotted the eggs in the fridge, snacks in the cupboard, and replenished his monster stash.

Just as you closed the fridge, you felt him walk up behind you. His arms snaked around your waist, and his chest was warm and familiar against your back. You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, your chin up and eyes closed. You wanted to soak in this moment with him, quiet and close, appreciating the slowness of the day within such a chaotic life. Alfie’s hands ran up your sides and onto your arms, applying a soothing amount of pressure. Once his hands reached your shoulders he delicately turned your body to face him. From there, his hands moved to your cheeks, holding your face like it was an ancient artifact.

“Can’t express enough how happy I am to have you here with me. Genuinely. I don’t think I could do it if everytime I came home you weren’t here to be with me. To understand me,” he confessed, bearing his heart to you in a way he didn’t often do.

And then, before you could respond, he kissed you. Soft, but deliberate, his lips molding perfectly to yours, like you were made exactly for each other. It said everything he had just vocalized, and everything he wanted to but didn’t quite know how. It said that he loved you, he missed you, and he was grateful for how easy time spent with you was. This kiss wasn’t desperate, wasn’t trying to escalate into something heated. It was innocent and happy. It was there to remind him you were real and that he didn’t have to worry about losing you.

And he knew no matter where his career took him—out of town, the country, or continent—he would always find a way to bring himself back home to you.

[eviesaurusrex]

tale as old as time | X. Riorson

Xaden Riorson x Aurelia Melgren (OC)

summary: Usually, he’s the dangerous, unapproachable wingleader in public, but since a few days, Xaden Riorson can’t bare to be apart from Aurelia Melgren.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: none really, mentions of past injuries, dragons, Xaden being touch-starved after admitting his feelings, Xaden’s shadows, Tairn being Tairn, two idiots in love, childhood friends-to-lovers, not entirely proofread

author’s note: Lately, I really am all over the place with my writing for fandoms lol. This could turn into a series of oneshots if people are interested—I can also switch this up into a typical reader-insert starring YN, just let me know!

divider by @enchanthings-a

It started right after Threshing.

First, she almost didn’t heed it no mind, not even realizing a change in his daily routines. Sometimes, she felt his eyes lingering on her whenever they passed one another in the hallways of Basgiath on their way to classes or formation in the morning. Other times, she felt him walking closely next to her, the backs of their hands brushing against one another, letting sparks of electricity travel through her bones, dancing on her skin.

All of those incidents, Aurelia categorized as mere blips in reality—undoubtedly enjoying them, but knowing they would not be present for the remainder of their days at the War College.

But then, the shadows started to act up.

Rea knew how masterfully Xaden wielded his signet, being in total control of it; she had watched him train with Garrick and the others and had even gotten a taste of his skills herself. So, for them to act up all of a sudden as soon as she was near a particularly dark corner?

Highly unlikely.

The day on which she woke up with one of those shadowy, smoky tendrils almost lovingly wrapped around her wrist like a delicate bracelet? She knew something had shifted, that something was certainly different than prior to Threshing. And she started to notice more and more:

Xaden casually walking down the hallway of her dorm floor by utter coincidence when she opened her door to head out for breakfast? The way his hand almost naturally found its spot on the small of her back, resting heavily and comfortingly there until they reached the door to the dining hall, his fingers pressing softly into the fabric of her uniform before letting go?

His long-lingering glances across the tables atop the leader platform now so obvious, she had to be blind (or dead) not to notice them?

The way they sat in comfortable silence on the parapet on a particularly starry night because he knew how much she loved stargazing? Hands brushing against one another on the withered stone, one finger wrapped around the other’s? The heavy feeling of his gaze on her profile while she watched the spectacle in the dark-tinted sky in awe and wonder?

She really had to be blind not to see it.

On this particular morning, Aurelia cradled a cup of coffee between both her hands, eyes focused on the dark-haired wingleader as he ate his scrambled eggs while being in deep conversation with Garrick. Taking a revitalizing sip, she patiently waited, smiling softly as Tairn seemed to wake up and growled in her mind. “Your thoughts of the wingleader disturbed my sleep, Stormy One. Keep this up, and I might not be inclined to continue to tolerate him near me.” The Melgren rolled her eyes at that. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t wager my marital bliss because I keep on fantasizing about incinerating the rider of my mate,” she shot back with a humorous tone down their bond, still letting her smile like a fool.

It was exhilarating to be chosen by a dragon, and Aurelia was sure she would keep on grinning like an idiot until the day of her last ride.

The black dragon huffed into her mind. “First: The bond of mates is far more superior to the human concept of marriage, girl. And second: Do not dare think of your last flight—already. We have years upon years, Stormy One. Your skills are too refined to be wasted on an early death. Instead, continue to dream of the rider who is now staring at you—it’s far less insulting.” It was almost as if Tairn chuckled deeply as her eyes fell on Xaden again, watching his onyx eyes soften ever so slightly as he reveled in the attention she granted him.

A small smile danced across her lips as she took another sip of her cooling coffee, her eyes never leaving his handsome face, remembering his whispered words after Threshing when the healers had worked on her bruised and battered body, thinking she wasn’t conscious enough to recall any of it. Until the day before, she had accounted those words to the delirious state she had been in due to the blood loss, but now, with the shadows accompanying her and the expression on his face? The evidence of his shift in person toward her? Aurelia was sure she didn’t dream up his confession.

They held each other’s gazes locked until most of the cadets had left for classes and training, and only then did the woman rise and leave for Battle Brief herself, waiting for him in the hallway. Leaning against a wall, she had her arms crossed loosely in front of her black-clad chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as he finally made his way out as well, spotting her instantly. Xaden walked over to her with long, purposeful strides, graceful and lethal as ever, fingers gently twitching as his stare fell from her eyes, raking over the lower part of her face.

“How are you feeling? Is the soreness bearable?”

His question was asked quietly, his voice soft and filled with a warmth barely anyone would receive within these walls, and that knowledge made the butterflies in her stomach whirl like a tornado. He had always been soft to her, ever since their first meeting as children, and he had continued to be like that until they had been separated by fate. Perhaps he still was the boy she once knew—just buried beneath everything he had to be for everyone else.

“Good. Better. It still somewhat aches when I get up too fast, but other than that…” She trailed off when his hand crept closer and touched the spot right next to her navel where she had been run through with a sword during Threshing, a scar now left behind. “But…,” she started again, making him look her directly in the eyes, a teasing smile creeping onto her lips. “I would feel much better if you’d explain this.” And with that, she pulled one of her arms out of their hold across her chest, holding up the wrist with the shadow still in place.

She watched Xaden swallow, eyes lingering on the black, translucent bracelet before he stared down at her again. A hand rose and softly wrapped itself around her fingers, pulling her hand close until it landed on his chest, right above his steadily beating heart. It pushed all the air out of her lungs; her breath hitched as she witnessed the vulnerability the fearsome wingleader showed her at this particular moment.

Xaden watched her intently as he murmured: “Do you mind it? Do they… disgust you? Bother you?” Without having to think about it, Aurelia slowly shook her head, never leaving him out of sight. “Why would you think that? I think they’re beautiful. Immaculate. Watching you wield them is like watching art,” she confessed, still slightly breathless, eyes wide with curiosity and… doubt. Did she never show him what she thought about him, about his talents and skills? Perhaps it had been drowned out by everything happening around them, and a pang of guilt settled in her chest. “Art, hm?” Blinking, Aurelia watched his smile grow, and the guilt lessened for now, making her slap his broad shoulder playfully. “Don’t tease me about my choice of words.”

The Riorson chuckled quietly before his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his high-towering form. “So, you want an explanation?” His voice had turned into a raspy whisper, and all Aurelia could do was to nod, eyes enthralled by his gaze, her heart beating against her ribcage, trying to escape. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right, Rea, day and night, when I’m here and when I’m not. I wanted to feel close to you at all times, reminding myself every hour of the day that you’re still here, with me.” The fingers pressed against his chest gripped onto his uniform, burying themselves into the midnight black fabric, holding herself up at his steady confession. “Threshing made me realize something I have forgotten for a while: I cannot lose you. I cannot live without you, Aurelia Melgren. If you wouldn’t have made it, it’s safe to say I would have succumbed alongside you. You…” He took a steadying breath with closed eyes before he bent at his waist, coming closer and closer until their foreheads were gently pressed to one another, onyx black crashed against periwinkle blue.

“You are the keeper of all that I feel, of all that I am. One word and I will never speak of it again. One word and I will lock everything away, remaining your friend as I have always been. But…” And with that, he pulled her even closer. “But if your feelings have changed over the years and I was too stupid or blind to see it… Please, tell me and put me out of this… this… misery.” His voice broke at the last word, and it almost hurt her physically to hear his suffering she never knew about.

When has everything between them changed? Aurelia knew when it had changed for her—years ago during a sparring session with him and Garrick back in Aretia when no one had thought about needing to separate. Yes, her father never liked her association with the Riorson’s, but her mother had been from Tyrrendor and called Fen Riorson one of her oldest friends. And on that day, when Xaden had beamed at her proudly for shooting her first arrow successfully, she had known and protected that little secret of hers until… today.

Softly, almost lovingly, Aurelia let the tip of her nose rub against his, staring into his deep eyes and seeing all the emotions she had always hoped to witness on his face, swimming there, freely visible. “Perhaps stupid, perhaps blind, perhaps a bit of both,” the Melgren chuckled, making him roll his eyes at her but turning serious for this particular moment. “You were never just a friend to me, Xaden. You were never just my most trusted companion and confidant—there was always something different between us. I felt… safe with you, protected even. I could be who I was, not the one others desperately wanted me to be. I was… free. You gave me freedom.”

And freedom was the one thing Aurelia had longed for her entire life.

Xaden stared at her unmoving; he almost didn’t dare to breathe when one of her hands cupped his cheek, the pad of her thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“I have always loved you, Xaden Riorson, and I will always love you until my last dying breath as a dragon rider. If you’ll have me…—”

She couldn’t ask the question, not with his lips crashing against hers without restraint, without fear. He was as wild in his claim as he was in his fight, making her his then and there, incinerating every trace of every other man she had allowed to touch her in her life. He unraveled her in a dark corner and put her back together, infusing her with love, passion, and freedom with every move of his lips, with ever raspy sound escaping his throat when her fingers tangled themselves in his dark strands, tucking him closer and closer, until they where almost one.

With a gasp for air, Xaden parted with a heavy breath, chest heaving and heart galloping under the palm of her hand. “If I could, I would make you a Riorson on the spot,” he mumbled, lips pressing kisses to her cheeks and her swollen lips with utmost tenderness. “Slow your dragons, love,” Aurelia’s chuckled words followed. “Let us survive this death sentence of a War College first before we enter a far less superior bond they will most definitely mock.” The man started to grin at her words, pulling her close into his chest. “Did you already get that lecture, hm?” Nodding, she gently pushed back his hair, trying to make it presentable again. “Oh, I have. And I imagine there will be more coming sooner rather than later now that we…” She didn’t dare say the words, but Xaden wasn’t as hesitant—not in the slightest.

“Now that we are in a relationship, mo chroi? You can say it—the title won’t bite you.” Shoving him away, Aurelia showed him her tongue, but letting him take her hand in his, allowing him to hold onto it. “Whatever. Those dragons are menaces, and I’m afraid he will take over the fatherly talk in lack of a present father to do that. And I’m not sure what alternative I would prefer.” As if Tairn had only waited to share his input, his voice echoed through her mind. “I do not know what you dare to imply there, Stormy One, but mind you, I would only propose exceptional measures in order not to procreate ahead of your time. We have goals to accomplish, rider, battles to win, wars to end. No time for… frolicking with your shadow wielder.”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh at the growled words and let go of Xaden’s hand in order to wrap her arm around his waist, claiming her spot at his side, his arm instinctively snaking around her shoulders. “Tairn warned me not to frolic with you, shadow wielder,” she explained at his cocked eyebrow and smiled with closed eyes as he bent down to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “I will keep that in mind, but don’t you think I won’t put my hands on you, Stormy One.”

Walking beside him felt good. Freeing. Empowering. It got into her head, she thought, but it did not matter. She had rarely felt this wonderful.

“Has Sgaeyl spilled Tairn’s secret?” Xaden chuckled humorously as they walked the empty hallways toward Battle Brief. “She did—unintentionally, I think. But it is fitting. You are a tornado, a force of nature to be reckoned with. And with that dragon at your side now? With me? We will be unstoppable, love.” Teasingly, Rea nudged his hip with hers as they stopped in front of the massive double doors leading into the largest classroom Basgiath offered. “Do not over-exaggerate, Xaden darling. You sound like you have an appetite for conquering the world,” she whispered as he bent down again, lips ghosting over hers. “Oh, I have an appetite for many things, mo chroi. And I’ll show you each and every single one of them.”

Kissing Xaden, Aurelia silenced him with flushing cheeks before opening the door to slip inside the now-settling-down cadets. She intended to make her way down toward her usual seat next to her best friend, Merope. Xaden had different plans, though.

His hand snatched hers, and without uttering another word, the tall man tugged her after him, making his row scoot up a seat to create room for her next to Garrick, who watched the interaction with gleaming interest. His cheeky grin was oh so prominent, Aurelia hit his cheek with the flat side of her quill, shaking her head slowly, almost threateningly. “Don’t you dare utter a single word,” she whisper-hissed at him, cocking an eyebrow when he dared to open his mouth, watching him reconsider his next move. “I just wanted to say I told you so, but whatever.” Grinning triumphantly, Garrick winked at her, chuckling when her hand hit him multiple times on his shoulder. “You are unbelievable,” was all she huffed in slight annoyance, forcing herself to look in front, trying to ignore all the stares and the whispers at her new spot. They seemed to increase in volume when everyone bore witness to Xaden Riorson moving his hand in her direction, grabbing her thigh under the small table each seat had sat in front of it, squeezing it tenderly, and leaning in her direction.

“Forget about them, all of them. It doesn’t matter what they think, okay?” He knew her too well, but in their case, she couldn’t give a fuck. Leaning closer herself, Aurelia pressed a lingering kiss to his jawline—it was the only part of his handsome face she could reach without making a fool out of herself—and smiled with a teasing gleam in her eyes. “You won’t get rid of me that easy, Riorson,” the Melgren promised, making him hum in contentment, his hand settling heavily on her thigh—and it would stay there for the remainder of this class and every other they shared.

“I intend to keep you, Melgren. I intend to keep you for a very long time.”

Thank you all for reading! Please consider leaving a like, a comment, and a reblog. Tell me your thoughts about this fic and/or ideas for potential new fanfictions ♡

[moondustbaby]

The Man We Love Most

blue collar!Rafe x wife!Reader

summary: It’s Father’s Day, and you wake up early with Mia and Jace to make Rafe his favorite breakfast and surprise him with handmade cards and love. What follows is a syrupy, sleepy morning filled with kisses, laughter, and quiet moments that remind you just how lucky you are to call him yours.

⸻

It starts just after six.

The house is still quiet, sun barely beginning to peek through the blinds, when you slip out of bed carefully—trying not to wake Rafe. He’s snoring softly, arm still draped across your waist, hair a wild mess from sleep. You press a kiss to his cheek and ease yourself out from under the blankets.

The second you pad down the hall, Jace is already standing at his bedroom door, eyes wide with excitement.

“Is it time?” he whispers.

You crouch down, brushing a hand through his sleep-tousled curls. “Yep. Let’s go surprise Daddy.”

Mia takes a little more convincing. Her hair’s tangled, arms full of stuffed animals, still rubbing her eyes when she finally lets you scoop her up and carry her to the kitchen.

Together, you make Rafe’s favorite: chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled eggs, and crispy bacon. Jace insists on pouring the batter himself (and makes a total mess), while Mia’s in charge of sprinkles (which she dumps over absolutely everything). The kitchen looks like a war zone by the time you’re done, but you don’t care. They’re happy. They’re giggling. They’re proud.

While you plate everything, Jace and Mia run off to decorate the dining room table with the handmade cards they’d worked on the night before. Jace’s has stick figures of the whole family—Rafe holding a hammer, Mia with a tiara, and you holding what he swears is a coffee mug. Mia’s is mostly pink hearts and scribbles, “DADA” scrawled across the front.

Once everything is set and the table glows with morning light, you tell them, “Okay, go wake Daddy.”

Jace lights up. “Can I jump on him?”

You laugh, “Please don’t break him. Be gentle, okay?”

They tear down the hallway, barefoot and loud. You can hear their squeals from the bedroom.

“Daddy! It’s your day!”

“Come on! Pancakes!”

Rafe emerges a few minutes later, smile lazy and wide, hair pointing in every direction. He’s got Mia on one hip, Jace clinging to his hand, both kids practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well good morning,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Happy Father’s Day, baby.”

Rafe’s eyes find yours, and that dopey, sleep-drunk grin softens into something even warmer. “You did all this?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Your little fan club had a vision.”

He looks around—the messy table, the lopsided pancakes, the flower Jace picked from the yard shoved into a glass—and then back at you.

“I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

“Language,” you say automatically, nodding toward the kids.

He grins, kisses Mia’s cheek and Jace’s forehead, then walks over and wraps an arm around your waist. You bury your face in his chest for just a second, inhaling the scent of sleep and warmth and him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your hair. “For all of this.”

You curl your fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt. “You deserve it.”

Then the four of you sit down—at a syrup-sticky table, surrounded by glittery cards and pure chaos—and eat breakfast together. Rafe makes silly airplane sounds to feed Mia pancakes, Jace recounts every detail of his kitchen “help,” and you just watch it all, heart full.

It’s not fancy. It’s not perfect.

It’s just your family—tired and messy and so full of love you could burst.

And Rafe?

Rafe has never looked more like a man you’re proud to love.

a/n: okay so i wrote this with tears in my eyes and syrup in my heart. it’s giving domestic dream, it’s giving pancake-eating husband, it’s giving “thank you for making me a dad” whispered against your neck while your kid sticks a crayon up his nose. if you’ve ever imagined rafe soft-smiling at you in boxers while holding your sleepy toddler on father’s day… this is for you. 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

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[zeroseuniverse]

Cold Feet

Word Count: 602 Summary: He blinked blearily and smiled. You must’ve kicked it out in your sleep, he thought. Cute. Wanting to be sweet, he gently reached over and tugged the blanket back over your leg, tucking you in like a caring boyfriend in a drama. Not even ten seconds later—FWIP. Pairing: Dino X reader

Taglist: @haaruki  @agaha127 @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120  @ltfirecracker

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It was your first night together.

Not just falling asleep during a movie or dozing off during late-night convos. This was the real deal: toothbrushes next to each other, a shared blanket, and the unspoken promise of staying until morning. Dino—Chan, to you—was buzzing with quiet excitement as he flopped onto the bed beside you, both of you grinning like fools in love.

You bickered playfully over who got which pillow. He tried to steal more blanket than he needed. And when the lights finally went off, it felt like the beginning of something soft and steady.

He was out in minutes. But sometime deep into the night, Chan stirred, his fingers brushing something cool.

Your leg. Just… sticking out from under the blanket like it belonged to a different sleeper entirely.

He blinked blearily and smiled. You must’ve kicked it out in your sleep, he thought. Cute.

Wanting to be sweet, he gently reached over and tugged the blanket back over your leg, tucking you in like a caring boyfriend in a drama.

Not even ten seconds later—FWIP.

Your other leg shot out from under the blanket, pointed and proud.

Chan frowned at it, brows furrowing in sleepy confusion. “Huh?”

He chuckled softly. Maybe just a coincidence.

He reached out, tucked the second leg back in.

FWIP.

The first one popped out again.

He stared at you.

You were completely still, face relaxed, breathing even. But your legs? Absolute rebels.

A full-blown silent war began.

Cover one leg. FWIP. Cover the other. FWIP. Back and forth like some chaotic bedtime see-saw.

Finally, Chan gave up with a groan, flopping back onto his side of the bed. “Okay. Okay. I see how it is. I didn’t know I was dating a bedtime ninja.”

You slept like a rock through all of it.

The next morning, while making you breakfast, he casually said, “Hey, not that I was, like, fighting with your legs all night or anything—but do you… need to sleep with one leg out?”

You looked up from your coffee and nodded, completely unfazed. “Of course. If both are under the blanket, I get too hot. But if both are out, the monsters will get me.”

He stared.

“…Monsters.”

“Yeah.” You took a bite of toast like you just stated Newton’s law. “Balance is key.”

He snorted, nearly choking on his orange juice. “You are absolutely feral.”

“And yet,” you said, smirking, “here you are. Making me eggs.”

A few weeks in, it became routine. If anyone ever tried to tuck you in—say, Seungkwan being overly motherly during movie nights—Chan would reach over and wordlessly uncover one of your legs.

Didn’t matter where, didn’t matter when. It was instinct now.

“Why did you just uncover their leg?” Minghao once asked during a team trip.

“Thermal regulation,” Chan answered smoothly, not looking up from his phone.

And then… it happened.

He woke up one night and saw it: his own foot, poking out from under the blanket.

“No,” he whispered dramatically, dragging it back in. “Don’t do this to me.”

The next night? It was back out again.

And you noticed. You raised a sleepy eyebrow and smiled. “You’ve been converted.”

“Traitor,” he muttered, staring at his foot like it betrayed him.

You curled into him, tossing your arm across his chest. “It’s okay. Now the monsters have to go through both of us.”

He kissed the top of your head with a laugh. “We’ll just kick them.”

And just like that, you became a united front—one leg each out, fighting the night in perfect, ridiculous harmony.

Balance, after all, was key.

[shelovesosa]

BEST PARENT WARS

art credits to jj59u on X

Pairing : singledad!Satoru x singlemom!reader

Contains : FLUFF, pretend megumi is gojos Biological kid…, domestic vides, Nanami cameo, dilf gojo , chaotic, idiots in love, he want that cookie BAD, slight enemies to lovers

Summary!! A petty rivalry ignites when Nobara complains about Megumi’s perfect lunches — made by his smug, sunglasses-wearing dad, Satoru. You fire back with your own over-the-top lunchbox masterpiece, launching a full-blown schoolyard cold war of snacks, supplies, and sarcastic notes. The kids are over it. The teachers are watching. And neither of you will admit you’re starting to enjoy the battle a little too much.

Part 2 >>>

The morning began with the hollow clink of a spoon in a mug, the scrape of chair legs across the linoleum floor, and a faint yawn echoing down the narrow hallway of your small but lived-in apartment.

Sunlight filtered through the mismatched curtains of the kitchen window, striping the breakfast table in honeyed gold and dusty shadows. A faint breeze passed through the open balcony door, carrying the smell of early spring—wet sidewalks, soft pollen, and the hint of cherry blossoms that hadn’t yet bloomed.

You stood barefoot at the stove, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and leggings, trying to stay awake as the eggs sizzled in the pan. The electric kettle behind you clicked off, steam rising in a slow coil. A familiar pair of feet padded into the room behind you.

“Morning, lovebug.”

A mop of dark brown hair peeked around the corner. Nobara’s eyes were barely open, her pink pajamas rumpled and sliding off one shoulder.

She rubbed her eyes and mumbled something into the sleeve of her shirt.

You turned the heat down and set her plate at the table. “Food’s ready. Toast’s got the jam you like—the one with the berries and the tiny seeds.”

Still half-asleep, she clambered into her seat and stared at the plate like it offended her.

Then, slowly, her shoulders slumped.

You noticed it right away. She didn’t swing her legs like usual. Didn’t hum or complain about the egg’s edges being too brown. Just sat there, silent, picking at her toast.

You took a seat across from her, concern rising.

“What’s up, baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Then, with a sudden surge of quiet frustration, she dropped her toast and crossed her arms.

“There’s this boy in my class,” she muttered, almost like she regretted bringing it up.

You tilted your head, already bracing yourself. “Go on…”

“His name’s Megumi. He’s weird. He always has his bangs in his face like a video game character.”

You covered your mouth to hide a smile. “Okay…”

“And yesterday,” she said, sitting up straighter now, voice rising with offense, “he brought this ridiculous lunch. Like, full-on restaurant style. There were little flags in his rice, and his food was cut into tiny shapes. He had an actual bento box with layers. Layers, Mom!”

You blinked. “Wow.”

“That’s not the worst part.”

You waited.

“He had strawberries. But not like the ones from the store. They were… they were fancy. Like peeled or cut or something? No green. Just soft and perfect and shiny. And everyone in class lost their minds. Even the teacher said it was adorable.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds kind of cute.”

Nobara’s lips twisted in fury. “It was a power move.”

“A power move?”

“Yes. Because after that, all the girls were like, ‘Ohhh Megumi, you’re so lucky!’ and they were sharing with him and trading bites and asking to sit near him. And I was just sitting there with my regular sandwich and a juice box like a total nobody.”

You frowned, your heart twinging. “Sweetheart, you are never a nobody.”

She glared at her plate. “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t even eat half of it. I was too mad. I just drank my juice and stared at the window like I was in one of those sad dramas you like.”

You blinked. “Okay, I feel personally attacked.”

She cracked the faintest smile, then went back to sulking.

You leaned across the table and gently pushed her hair out of her face. “You know what I think?”

Nobara didn’t look up.

“I think if some boy is going to show off like that, then we should show off even harder.”

Now she looked at you. “What?”

“I’m saying tomorrow… you’re walking into that classroom with a lunch so good the whole school talks about it.”

Her eyes widened, cautious. “Really?”

You nodded. “Rice flowers. Maybe heart-shaped egg rolls. Dessert. Sauce containers. The works.”

She leaned forward. “Can we do those baby sausages with the octopus legs?”

“I don’t know how to do those.”

“Please?”

You smiled. “Okay. For you? Anything.”

She beamed so brightly you could practically feel the pride returning to her little shoulders.

You leaned back. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“No fighting in the cafeteria.”

Nobara shrugged. “No promises if he brings peeled mango.”

You spent the rest of your day like any other — a balancing act between deadlines and errands, bills and groceries, switching from work mode to parent mode in five-second intervals.

But that night, once Nobara was asleep, curled under her fluffy pink blanket with a stuffed rabbit under her arm, you stood in the middle of the kitchen and stared down your enemy: the rice cooker.

“You’re going to work for me tonight,” you muttered, pressing the lid with authority.

It hissed to life.

You chopped vegetables with a dedication you hadn’t felt in weeks. Molded rice into neat shapes using a set of cheap plastic cutters from a forgotten drawer. You arranged the food like a tiny puzzle: carrots curled into spirals, broccoli tucked into a corner, baby tomatoes skewered with little picks shaped like animals.

You even made a tiny egg roll with cheese inside.

When it was done, you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand and smiled down at your masterpiece.

Then you drew a quick doodle on a sticky note — a bunny in sunglasses, giving a thumbs-up — and wrote:

“You’ve got this. Show them who’s boss. <3”

You stuck it under the lid.

A proud warmth bloomed in your chest. Take that, Megumi, you thought, turning off the kitchen light.

The next morning started with nervous energy.

Not Nobara’s — yours. Your hands were sticky with leftover rice and your bangs clung to your forehead as you triple-checked the lunchbox. You’d woken up a little earlier than usual — okay, a lot earlier — and skipped your usual five-minute scroll in bed to boil the eggs and heat the mini sausages again.

You’d even wiped down the bento box with a microfiber cloth like it was going to be inspected under a microscope.

Nobara, for her part, was calm. Too calm. She sat at the table in her school uniform, sipping her milk with quiet confidence. Legs swinging. Hair brushed and tied into her usual side ponytail with the bow she picked last night. A smug grin on her face.

“You think he’s going to be jealous?” she asked.

You slid the bento box into her backpack with dramatic flair. “Jealous? He’s going to cry.”

“Good.” She drained the rest of her milk like a villain toasting their evil plan.

You chuckled and handed her the lunch bag. “Just… be gracious about it, okay? We don’t need a bento-themed civil war in your classroom.”

“I’ll try,” she said innocently. “But if someone cries, that’s their problem.”

You pinched her cheek. “Who raised you?”

“You.”

“…Fair.”

Outside, the weather had warmed just enough to trick you into forgetting it was still March. The street buzzed with life — the hum of school vans, barking dogs behind low fences, the whir of a scooter passing too fast.

You held Nobara’s hand as you approached the school gates, slipping into the stream of other parents and kids. There was the usual chatter, backpacks bouncing, jackets slipping off shoulders. The cherry blossom trees lining the school yard were just beginning to bloom — delicate pink petals clinging like secrets to every branch.

Then you heard it.

“Megumi, wait up! You forgot your scarf!”

A loud voice rang out across the courtyard like someone had plugged a mic into the morning.

You turned instinctively toward the sound. There he was. Tall. Carelessly stylish. Sunglasses on his face like he was walking a red carpet instead of a sidewalk.

The man behind the pudding smiley face.

He was holding a striped scarf in one hand and a bright yellow lunch bag in the other. You watched as he crouched down beside a dark-haired boy — Megumi, presumably — and wrapped the scarf gently around his neck, fussing over the knot like it mattered.

Megumi stood there like a statue, arms crossed, letting it happen with the expression of someone who had accepted his fate long ago.

You stayed where you were, watching in silence as Satoru adjusted the kid’s collar and then, with zero shame, ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“Be good,” he said.

Megumi mumbled something. Probably “stop it” or “you’re embarrassing me,” though the words were lost in the wind.

You felt Nobara tug your hand. “There he is,” she whispered like you were scouting an enemy encampment. “That’s the bento boy.”

Your gaze flicked between the two of them. Satoru spotted you before you could look away. He grinned. And then he waved. A big, full-arm wave, like he was greeting a long-lost friend.

You blinked. Your eyebrows raised on instinct. You gave him a polite little nod. He started walking toward you.

“Uh-oh,” Nobara said under her breath.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Uh-oh.”

“Hey!” he said, cheerful like caffeine in human form. “You’re Nobara’s mom, right?”

You nodded slowly. “That’s me.”

“Satoru Gojo,” he said, offering a hand like this was a networking event. “Resident lunchbox tyrant.”

You laughed in surprise and shook it. His hand was warm, his grip light. “So you admit it?”

“Oh, completely. Megumi hates the attention. I live for it.”

You looked past him to where Megumi stood with his class, stoic and still. “Seems like he’s handling it well.”

“He’s a tough kid,” Satoru said. “Raised by the best.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “I saw the bento.”

“And I saw yours.” His smile widened. “Smiley face on the rice. Bold move.”

“Carrot stars,” you said. “Respect.”

“I didn’t know we were playing a game,” he said, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Well,” you said, smirking, “you started it.”

“True,” he nodded. “But I think you escalated it.”

“You brought pudding for the whole class!”

He gasped. “You saw that?”

“It was in the group chat.”

Satoru laughed so loudly that a few parents glanced over. “You’re right. It was a bit much.”

“Are we… doing this again today?” you asked, curious.

“Only if you are.”

You looked at him — at the tousled white hair, the half-zipped hoodie, the ridiculous sunglasses, and the way he smiled at you without a hint of self-consciousness. Then you grinned back.

“Round two,” you said. “Bring it.”

By lunchtime, the group chat was exploding. A mother uploaded a new photo of the bento display in the classroom — this time featuring not one, but two spectacular lunches.

Yours had made a splash. Heart-shaped onigiri, grilled vegetables shaped into flower petals, the rabbit napkin Nobara insisted on, and a tiny handwritten note folded into origami.

You felt proud. Giddy, even. Until you saw his.

Satoru’s creation was a monstrosity of love and chaos: a three-tiered bento box with tiny rice animals wearing nori bowties. There was a cartoon version of Megumi's face made out of seaweed and cheese. There were hand-cut apple rabbits. A slice of cheesecake with gold sprinkles.

He even included a tiny menu card. You stared at the screen in silence.

Then typed:

“This is getting out of hand.”

Satoru replied within seconds:

“Don’t hate the player, hate the lunch.”

You stared at your phone and let out a laugh so loud it startled your coworker across the room.

That evening, when Nobara burst through the front door, she was glowing.

“MOM,” she shouted, dropping her backpack like it owed her money. “They LOST THEIR MINDS.”

“Yeah?”

“Everyone said my lunch was better than yesterday. And that little origami note? That’s going in my pencil case.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Mission accomplished.”

“But…” she added, serious now. “Megumi brought dessert again. He said his dad likes to experiment with toppings.”

You blinked. “Did he now?”

“So,” she said, eyes gleaming. “What’s for tomorrow?”

You stared at her. At her spark. At this ridiculous little game you and another parent had started without meaning to — and how now it had become something that made your kid feel seen. Confident. You grinned.

“We make cookies tonight.”

The kitchen smelled like sugar and war. You were bent over the baking tray, carefully spacing out spoonfuls of dough as Nobara hovered next to you, holding a bowl of M&M’s like it was rare treasure.

“Do we add the candies before or after baking?” she asked, peeking over your shoulder.

“Before. Just press them in lightly so they don’t melt into weird blobs.”

“Like that time you made chocolate chip lava?”

“Okay, first of all, that was an accident,” you said, pressing an M&M into the soft dough. “And second, you still ate three.”

“I was being polite.”

You looked at her flatly.

She grinned. “And hungry.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugged at your lips anyway. It had been years since you’d baked like this — not just for sustenance, but for fun. For your daughter. For her pride. For something petty and strangely sweet that had grown between you and Satoru without either of you saying it out loud.

He was… charming, in that ridiculous way. Confident. Cocky. Endearingly extra.

And if you were honest with yourself — and that wasn’t always your strong suit — you’d started looking forward to his texts more than you wanted to admit.

Not that you liked him. Not like that. Probably.

You pushed that thought aside and slid the tray into the oven.

“Alright,” you announced. “Operation Cookie Overkill has begun.”

The next morning, Nobara practically skipped to school.

She held the clear box of individually wrapped cookies like a trophy. You’d let her decorate the labels — bright marker hearts and gold star stickers that looked like they were made by a seven-year-old with a grudge.

“Remember,” you said as she waved goodbye. “Share.”

“I’ll generously distribute,” she said, puffing her chest. “Like a queen.”

You watched her run toward the gate, weaving through backpacks and familiar faces.

Then, from across the lot, you saw Satoru again.

This time, he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Just a gray hoodie and jeans. His hair was as chaotic as usual, but there was something different in how he stood — a little straighter. Less performative. He looked… handsome.

And unfortunately, he caught you staring. He smiled. No wave this time. Just a small nod. You gave one back and quickly busied yourself with your phone.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the flicker in your chest.

By noon, the cookie war had become a school-wide event.

You were at work, halfway through a salad, when your phone buzzed.

📸 Photo from PTA Chat Caption: “Nobara brought cookies for the whole class today! Adorable! And delicious! ❤️🍪”

You smiled. Scrolled.

Another parent chimed in:

“Satoru’s cinnamon rolls yesterday were amazing, but these cookies?? We’re getting spoiled!”

And then…

“Someone get these two a bakery already.”

You blinked. Re-read that one twice.

Before you could type anything back, your phone buzzed again — a private message this time.

From… Satoru.

Satoru: Okay. You win today. The cookie with the little smiley face in chocolate chips? Ruthless. I’m down. But I’m not out.

You stared at the screen, warmth creeping up your neck. You typed, then backspaced. Typed again.

You: I accept your surrender. But I expect retaliation.

Satoru: You will regret that.

You stared at your phone. Grinning like a fool.

That evening, just as you were unpacking Nobara’s bag, there was a knock at the door.

You opened it, only mildly surprised to see Kento Nanami standing on your porch. Crisp shirt. Jacket. Tie. Always dressed like he’d just stepped out of a finance meeting. Even after all these years.

“Kento,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He offered a small, polite smile. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

You stepped aside. “No, come in. She just finished dinner.”

He nodded and stepped inside. You could feel the shift in the air immediately. A little heavier. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Nobara lit up the moment she saw him.

“Daddy!”

He crouched as she ran into his arms. “Hey, sweetheart.”

They hugged tightly. Her hair spilled over his shoulder. And for a moment — just a moment — you could see the family you once were, like a photo you hadn’t meant to keep in a drawer.

Kento stood, brushing her bangs aside. “How was school?”

She lit up. “Mom made cookies! I passed them out and everyone went wild. Even the teacher said we should open a bakery.”

Kento smiled. “Did they now?”

“Megumi said we were being dramatic, but I think he liked them too. He ate two.”

You froze slightly at the name. You hadn’t mentioned Satoru to Kento. Hadn’t meant to.

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t ask.

Instead, he turned to you. “She’s doing well.”

You nodded. “She’s… thriving, actually. Which is new.”

He paused.

“I’m glad.”

You both stood in that silence, not quite awkward — just old. Worn. Familiar.

Then he asked, “Do you want me to take her next weekend?”

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Sure. Yeah. She’d like that.”

“She misses the cat.”

“She told me.”

You both chuckled softly.

He looked at you for a long moment before saying, “I’m glad she has you.”

And even though it was quiet, and simple, and deeply Nanami — it made your stomach twist a little.

He still cared. You knew that.

But love, in the way you both needed, had slipped through the cracks long ago.

Satoru walked into the classroom on Thursday morning carrying a giant box of craft supplies, his sunglasses pushed into his hair, and a confident little bounce in his step.

“You volunteered for class decorations?” the teacher asked, bewildered.

“Art is passion,” he replied smoothly, laying out glitter markers, limited edition washi tape, and a mechanical hot glue gun that looked military-grade.

You stood in the doorway behind him with a tray of cookies you’d baked for the class. You smiled politely.

“Satoru.”

He turned. “Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there, Miss Martha Stewart.”

“Crafts and snacks?” you mused. “How generous. Overcompensating?”

“For being better?” he asked. “Always.”

You leaned in with a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t trip over your ego. The kids might need the glue gun.”

By Friday, the teachers knew.

So did the kids. One of the parents whispered, “Are they fighting or flirting?” The answer was unclear.

Satoru had started writing messages inside his bento boxes. Not to Megumi — to you.

Today’s note:

“If food is the language of love, then you’re grammatically incorrect.”

The whole lunch table laughed.

Nobara rolled her eyes. “He thinks he’s funny.”

You snapped your chopsticks. “He thinks wrong.”

That night, you stayed up sketching a meal plan for next week.

It included:

* Onigiri shaped like your face.

* A thermos of miso soup that would spell “LOSER” in seaweed letters.

* A sweet treat shaped like a crown. Because, obviously, you were winning.

The next morning, you packed it all with a note.

“Didn’t realize ‘obnoxious’ was a flavor. Hope you like eating your words.”

Nobara shook her head in awe. “You guys are crazy.”

You kissed her forehead. “Crazy never loses, baby.”

Later that night, after the dishes were done and Nobara was asleep with her arm flung over her stuffed rabbit, you sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you.

Your phone buzzed again.

Satoru: So. About Monday . Have you ever seen a bento shaped like an aquarium?

You laughed. Softly. Quietly.

Then you typed back.

You: I’m not scared. Bring the fish

It was the kind of Monday morning where everything felt too still.

The sky was pale, streaked with soft morning hues. You could hear birds chirping through the cracked window, the slow rhythm of life starting outside — but your apartment held an anxious buzz. The kettle hissed on the stove. Nobara munched toast loudly from the kitchen table.

And you? You were sweating over seaweed.

“Okay, okay—what does a goldfish even look like in rice?” you muttered, fingers trembling slightly as you tried to press a cutout into shape. You’d watched two YouTube tutorials. You’d used a cookie cutter. You’d begged a god you didn’t believe in.

All for one reason: Satoru Gojo and his threat of an aquarium bento.

Well, no. Just Satoru now. And he’d made it clear in his last message: this was war.

“You're acting like he’s your boyfriend,” Nobara said, watching you from the doorway as she chewed. “You should just ask him to come over and make lunch together.”

You dropped the rice mold.

“Excuse me?”

She grinned. “It’s obvious, Mom.”

You stared at her, flustered. “What’s obvious?”

“That you’re into him.”

“I am not into him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You stayed up to boil eggs at midnight and print tiny edible labels.”

You pointed a spoon at her. “You’re grounded.”

“I’m eight.”

You sighed dramatically and turned back to the bento. “This is for you, you know.”

“Sure. Totally. For me.”

You paused. “Is he… talking about it at school?”

Nobara shrugged. “Not really. But Megumi said his dad was ‘up all night yelling at seaweed.’”

You smiled, despite yourself.

You arrived at school just as Satoru did. He had one hand on Megumi’s shoulder and the other holding something under a cloth cover like he was revealing a masterpiece.

He wore a soft blue sweater today. Simple. Gentle on his frame. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d only just blow-dried it, and his sunglasses were pushed up into his hair.

He looked… softer than usual. You lifted a hand in greeting as you approached, and he smiled—wide and genuine.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Born ready.”

Megumi groaned beside him. “You two are embarrassing.”

Nobara gasped. “Us?! You’re just mad because we have better food.”

Satoru laughed and pulled the cloth off his creation.

And there it was. A full-blown underwater-themed bento. Blue-tinted rice shaped into waves, seaweed coral fans, cheese-starfish, and tiny carrot octopi with sesame-seed eyes.

You blinked.

He grinned. “Still not scared?”

“I respect the craftsmanship,” you said, peeking into your own container. “But I think my jellyfish dumplings are going to win.”

You opened the lid. Satoru leaned in.

“Oh my god—are those noodles shaped like eels?”

“You bet your sweet seaweed they are.”

You both burst out laughing. Megumi and Nobara sighed in perfect harmony.

The school principal sent a message at noon:

We love your creativity, but please tone down the lunches. The other kids are starting to get upset.P.S. We would love for both of you to volunteer at the spring festival next month.

You stared at the message. Then your phone buzzed again:

Satoru: We’ve been punished. But… group punishment? Are we officially in this together now?

Your heart skipped.

You: I think we’re lunch criminals.

Satoru: Does this mean we finally grab that coffee? Or are we keeping it competitive?

You: Coffee. But only so I can interrogate your rice fish technique.

That weekend , you found yourself standing outside a quiet café near the park. The sun was warm on your shoulders, and your coat hung open as the breeze tugged at the hem of your shirt. It had been a long time since you'd waited for someone like this — not for a meeting, not for a kid’s event.

Just… a coffee.

With him. When Satoru arrived, he didn’t greet you with a joke. He just smiled. Quiet. Warm.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled back. “Hi.”

He held the door for you, and the two of you slid into a booth. The smell of espresso and baked sugar filled the space between you.

He looked different without the performative chaos. Less shiny. More real.

You ordered lattes, and neither of you spoke until the cups hit the table.

“I wasn’t expecting you to say yes,” he admitted, stirring sugar into his drink.

“I wasn’t expecting you to ask.”

He smiled. “Megumi’s been sleeping easier since this whole thing started. He hasn’t said it, but… he’s happier.”

Your heart tugged. “Nobara too. She feels seen. Even when she’s pretending she doesn’t care.”

A pause settled between you.

Then he asked, quietly, “Are you and… Nobara’s father still close?”

You blinked. “He’s still in Nobara’s life. Always will be. But no, not… not like that.”

Satoru’s jaw flexed for a moment. Then he nodded.

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not.”

Another pause.

Then you added softly, “He’s a good man. Just not the right one.”

Satoru looked at you — really looked at you.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “sometimes the right one just shows up late.”

Your eyes met. And for a moment, the air felt too warm, too close, like the café had shrunk around the booth and the silence between your cups had turned into something fragile and hopeful.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Petals drifted from the trees like confetti. Satoru walked you to the corner, hands in his coat pocket, and you hugged your arms close.

He glanced over at you. “You cold?”

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

But he stepped closer anyway. Just enough that your sleeves brushed. And you let them. Just like that.

You never meant for it to be a date. You told yourself it wasn’t. That it was just coffee again. Just… hanging out. For the kids. For the bento truce. For your own sanity.

But as you stood in your hallway that morning, staring at your reflection — wearing your favorite blouse and those jeans that hugged you just enough — you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

You wanted this to be a date. You wanted him.

It was Satoru’s idea to meet at the local farmers market. You found him there just before noon, leaning against a vendor’s tent with two drinks in hand and sunglasses perched in his hair.

“Peach iced tea,” he said, offering you a cup. “I remembered you said you like sweet things.”

You blinked. “I didn’t realize you were listening that hard.”

“I’m always listening,” he said, then smiled like it cost him nothing. But his eyes didn’t move from yours for a beat too long. And your heart… did something traitorous.

You walked the stalls slowly, sipping tea and talking about everything except the kids.

He told you about the worst haircut he ever had — a childhood mullet, by the sound of it — and you told him how Nobara once shaved her eyebrows trying to “look fierce.”

You passed a flower stand. He paused.

“Pick one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re letting me choose?”

“I want to see what you think is pretty.”

You turned to the rows of fresh-cut blooms and carefully plucked a tulip — not the flashiest, not the rarest. Just… soft. Quiet.

He watched you hold it for a second, then said, almost too softly, “Figures you’d pick the gentle one.”

Lunch was shared on a shaded bench by the pond. You split a wrap and laughed too loud over how many ducks tried to steal your crumbs. One brushed his foot and he shrieked like a child.

“Nope. That was it. I’m done with nature.”

You were still laughing when you stood, brushing off crumbs — and his hand hovered just slightly at your lower back. Not quite touching.

But close.

So close.

That week, everything returned to routine. Until it didn’t.

You were waiting near the school gate for Nobara, arms crossed against the spring breeze, when a car pulled up quietly beside you.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The silver sedan. The clean lines. The precision of it all. Kento Nanami.

He stepped out in his usual beige coat, hair combed neatly back, his presence like a book you’d once memorized: predictable, comforting, closed.

“Hi,” he said, voice even.

“Hey,” you replied, offering a small smile. “She’s almost out.”

He nodded. Then — his eyes shifted. Past you. To the figure walking across the lot.

Satoru.

He was laughing, something bright and easy in his expression as he walked Megumi toward the gate. He didn’t notice you at first — not until his eyes lifted and caught yours.

Then… he saw Nanami. And Nanami saw him. A flicker of recognition crossed both their faces. Not quite surprise. Not quite hostility. Just something… cautious. You felt the temperature shift.

Satoru approached, nodding politely. “Hey.”

Nanami gave the smallest incline of his head. “You must be Satoru.”

“I am,” he said, easy smile still in place. “You must be Nanami.”

You could feel the tension threading between them — not loud, not aggressive. Just loaded.

“Thank you for walking her in the mornings,” Nanami said to you, eyes on Satoru. “Nobara tells me you’ve been packing some… interesting lunches.”

“Guilty,” Satoru said. “Though she started it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make me separate you two.”

They both chuckled — polite, tight.

Just then, the doors opened and kids spilled out in waves. Nobara ran straight for you, waving wildly. Megumi followed behind, quieter but smiling as he saw his dad.

You crouched to hug your daughter, the men standing like mirrored statues above you — each holding half your past and present.

“Weekend plans?” Satoru asked softly once Megumi had taken his hand.

You glanced toward Kento, then back to him.

“Just a little rest. And time with her dad.”

“I get it,” he said, offering a soft smile. “See you Monday?”

You nodded. “Yeah. See you.”

As he turned to walk away with Megumi, Nanami glanced at you, voice low.

“He seems… interesting.”

You glanced at him sideways. “He is.”

He was quiet a moment.

Then: “I’m glad you’re smiling again.”

Your breath caught.

“Me too.”

You didn’t plan to invite him over.

Not that week. Not that day. Not while your apartment was cluttered with stray socks and half-eaten fruit cups and you hadn’t even remembered to light a candle to cover the scent of Nobara’s slime experiments.

But it just… happened.

Satoru had been waiting outside the school, balancing Megumi’s backpack on one shoulder and Nobara’s art project in the other — because she’d “forgotten it in his car.” You knew she hadn’t. You’d seen the way she smiled when she said it.

And you’d seen the look Satoru gave you when he said, “I owe you dinner now, don’t I?”

You could’ve said no.

But the thing was — your daughter had already run over and asked if Megumi could come up to play. So you said yes.

He took off his shoes the second he stepped inside, toes wiggling against your mat like he owned the place. Megumi walked in behind him, wide-eyed, cradling a small bag of LEGOs like a peace offering.

The kids disappeared into the living room.

You found yourself standing beside Satoru in your kitchen, hands brushing once as you reached for the same drawer.

“Oh,” you murmured, pulling back. “Sorry.”

“No,” he said, “I liked that.”

Your breath hitched.

You laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said, smiling as he leaned against the counter. “You do make this place feel warm.”

You tried not to stare. Not at the way his hair had flattened from the car. Not at the way he’d rolled his sleeves up, or how his voice had gentled around your daughter’s name.

You reached for a pan. “You cook?”

“I reheat.”

“Well then,” you said, trying to sound smug. “Prepare to be amazed.”

You made a simple meal — grilled salmon, soft rice, sautéed greens — but the way he watched you do it, you'd think you were crafting art.

Satoru offered to cut the vegetables, and you handed him the board with a quiet warning: “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

He pretended to be offended. “I have knife skills.”

You smirked. “Bet.”

The conversation stayed light. Easy. Familiar.

You’d never had this with Nanami — not because he was cold, but because everything with him had always felt structured, purposeful. Like it had to be done right the first time.

With Satoru, nothing was perfect. But it was fun.

You turned around to catch him stealing a cucumber slice.

“Caught you.”

“I’m sampling. It’s quality control.”

You reached to swat him, and instead — your fingers brushed his jaw. Just for a second. Just enough. And then the front door buzzed.

You knew who it was before you checked. Nanami stood there in his pressed shirt, tie slightly loosened, holding Nobara’s overnight bag.

“Thought I’d grab her early,” he said.

“Of course,” you answered, suddenly too aware of how quiet the apartment had become.

Satoru appeared behind you a beat later. He didn’t say anything at first, just raised a hand in polite greeting.

Nanami’s expression didn’t change.

You cleared your throat. “Come in for a second?”

He stepped in.

The warmth from dinner still lingered. Plates on the table. Soft music from the speaker. Laughter trickling in from the kids’ room.

Nanami scanned it all. His gaze landed last on you.

“Looks like you had company.”

You nodded. “Just dinner.”

A pause.

Nobara came bounding out, face lighting up when she saw her father. “Daddy!”

He crouched to hug her, strong arms catching her easily, pressing his lips into her hair.

“I missed you.”

She giggled. “You saw me two days ago.”

“It’s too long.”

She waved to Megumi. “Bye, Megu!”

Satoru nodded at her with a warm smile. “Don’t forget your slime.”

“I never do.”

Nanami helped her into her coat and grabbed her bag. But before stepping out, he turned to you.

“Could we talk? Just us?”

Satoru looked between you. Then nodded, quiet.

“I’ll keep the kids busy.”

You followed Nanami to the small bench just outside your building, where the streetlamps flickered and the chill evening air kissed your skin.

He didn’t speak right away.

Neither did you.

“I didn’t come here to interfere,” he said finally, voice low. “Or make you feel guilty.”

“I don’t.”

“I just…” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “You look happy.”

You nodded.

“I always wanted that for you,” he said. “Even if it wasn’t with me.”

Your throat tightened.

He looked at his hands. “I think I spent so long trying to build something stable, something lasting, that I forgot it also had to be… soft. And I’m sorry for the ways that made you feel invisible.”

“I was never invisible,” you said. “You just loved in a way I couldn’t hold.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s a beautiful way of putting it.”

A pause passed.

“I don’t regret loving you,” he said quietly. “I still do, in a way. I think a part of me always will.”

Your eyes stung.

“But I’m not here to win you back,” he said. “I’m just here to say… I hope he knows what he’s getting.”

You smiled. “He does.”

“Good,” Nanami said, rising to his feet. “Because I’ve never seen you glow like this.”

When you returned upstairs after kissing Nobara’s forehead before she left with her dad, the house smelled like soap and oranges. Megumi was asleep on the couch under one blanket, tangled in a mess of limbs and LEGO bricks.

And Satoru… he was sitting on the floor beside them, eyes closed, head resting back against the couch.

You didn’t wake him.

You just sat beside him quietly, your shoulder brushing his. And this time, you didn’t pull away.

You hadn’t meant to plan a family outing. Not when the word family still made your chest feel tight, uneven. You weren’t trying to blend anything. You were just trying to let the kids have fun.

But somehow, by the time you found yourself holding two park tickets and a paper map to the zoo, with Nobara’s hand in yours and Satoru carrying Megumi on his back, it felt… a little too perfect to call it just a playdate.

“Did we really just spend sixty dollars on entry and ten on a giraffe magnet?” you muttered, eyeing the stuffed animal in Nobara’s arms.

“She named it Sato,” Satoru whispered behind his palm. “Which I take as a sign she’s developing excellent taste.”

You elbowed him. He grinned.

The day stretched out like honey. You saw flamingos, lions, capybaras. Satoru bought all of you ice cream, then tried to juggle the cones and dropped his own on his shoe.

Megumi, with a rare smile, offered him a bite of his instead.

“I’m being generous,” the boy said, serious.

“You’re being perfect,” Satoru replied, ruffling his son’s hair.

You saw the way Satoru looked at Megumi — all pride and softness, a quiet ache in the space behind his smile. And the more you watched it, the more you started to wonder.

Where was her? The mother behind those eyes.

Later, the four of you found a shaded table near the panda exhibit, the air sticky with sunscreen and the squeals of nearby children.

The kids were coloring a shared map with highlighters when Nobara, suddenly, without looking up, said, “Dad, can Megumi come over again tomorrow?”

You stilled. So did Satoru. Megumi glanced up too. No one corrected her. Not at first. You looked over at Satoru slowly. He didn’t look away. Instead, he smiled — a small, breathless sort of smile.

“Maybe,” he said. “If his mom is okay with it.”

Your heart jumped.

But you just nodded, cheeks warming. “I think she’d say yes.”

The ride home was quieter. The kids knocked out in the back seat, your daughter’s cheek against Megumi’s head.

You stared out the window until Satoru finally asked, voice low, “You want to know about Megumi’s mom, don’t you?”

You looked at him carefully. “I do. But only if you want to tell me.”

He exhaled, the sound worn.

“She was someone I thought I’d love forever,” he said. “But I never got the chance to know if I actually would.”

You stayed silent.

“She left before Megumi turned two. Said she couldn’t do it — the parenting, the mess, the tether. She wanted freedom. I don’t hate her for that. But I don’t… admire her, either.”

You reached for his hand without thinking. And he let you hold it.

“She’s alive, somewhere,” he said. “But we don’t talk. Haven’t in years. I never wanted to tell Megumi anything that would make him feel unwanted.”

Your heart ached.

“Does he remember her?”

“Only in pieces. Mostly questions. I try to give him enough love for two people, but…” His voice trailed off. “Some days, it’s hard.”

You squeezed his hand.

“You’re doing a good job, Satoru.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he’d never seen someone say those words to him without expecting something back.

You whispered, “You’re a really good father.”

A pause. Then he leaned over. Pressed his forehead to yours.

And in the quiet, you could feel something shift between you — slow and warm and blooming. Not rushed. Not forced. Just real.

When he walked you upstairs that night, Nobara still sleeping in your arms, he didn't try to kiss you.

He didn’t ask for more.

He just looked at you, like he didn’t want to leave.

“Tell me next time you’re making bento,” he said.

You smiled. “I always do.”

And he turned and walked away — but not without one last glance over his shoulder, that quiet, boyish grin pulling at his lips.

And for the first time in years, as you closed the door behind you, the silence in your apartment didn’t feel lonely. It felt full.

You’d never seen where he lived. You’d seen the car, the way he dressed, the subtle signs of someone who lived more freely than most single parents. But his home?

It was a mystery. Until that Friday.

Part 2 >>>

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Summary: After a deadly tempest rage against Berk, a maelstrom in the sea claims your parents—Where you were then eventually passed into the gruff, tender care of Gobber as his adopted niece. Help raising you beneath the clang of his forge alongside his own godson, Hiccup, a boy destined to defy the world. Hiccup and you stand through many hardships as childhood friends, and awkward occasions as two misfits against the world—a fierce baker of breads and a dreamer craving Viking glory. Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 5.1k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 1

The Great Hall of Berk hummed with the morning clamor of a village waking to the promise of a new day. The air was thick with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods ready for the taking but not without a symphony of chaos swirling around you as you danced between ovens and tables in a blur, with flour-dusted hands.

Loaves of bread, their golden crusts glistening with a crisp perfection, stacked high upon the counters in a tantalizing display. Among them, an irresistible assortment of buns—barley, ryes smothered in butter, and berries with oats—each mouthwatering with rustic flavor.

Stretching before you, a mile-long table groans under the weight of temptation: frothy eggnog, honeyed mead, and robust ale, each poised to dance with creamy skyr's or steaming bowls of porridge. And that's just the beginning. Succulent meats, tender fish, plump eggs, vibrant fruits, and crunchy nuts sprawl across the spread, a cornucopia of delights ready to satisfy the ravenous hunger of the tribe.

While the shouts of hungry Vikings echoed through the stone walls—orders barked with the urgency of warriors prepping for any sudden battle.

"More rye, lass!"

"Where's the barley flatbread?"

"Don't skimp on the butter this time!"

You stumbled over your own feet, catching yourself against a barrel of pickled herring before it toppled, a laugh bubbling up despite the madness. This was your domain, your forge of flour and fire, and though the frenzy threatened to swallow you whole, pride sparked in your chest like a well-tended ember.

You kneaded the last batch of dough with a fierceness that would've made a dragon crawl away, slamming it onto the table with a satisfying thwack. The rhythm of it steadied you—knead, fold, press—until the dough was smooth and ready for the oven. Wiping sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your elbow, already streaked with flour, you surveyed the kitchen.

Milkmaidens darted about, their aprons flapping like dragon wings, juggling trays of cheese and slabs of smoked fish. The head cook, a stout woman named Marta, bellowed at a young lad who'd nearly upended a cauldron of porridge. It was a storm, yes, but one you'd learned to ride with the same grit that kept Berk standing against the war.

"That's the last of it," you called, sliding the dough into the roaring oven. The heat kissed your face as you shut the iron door with a clang. Turning to Marta, you tugged at the ties of your apron. "I've got to run—Hiccup's waiting."

Marta's head snapped up; her wooden spoon poised mid-stir like a weapon. "Now? You're leaving me in this mess? The chieftain's crew'll be here any minute, and they'll eat us alive if the bread's not—"

"You've got it under control," you shot back, already halfway to the door, snagging a cloth from the counter. With a deft hand, you bundled a wedge of creamy goats' cheese, between a hunk of fresh flatbread, with some smoked meat and a fried egg—Hiccup's favorite, a little morning ritual you'd started years ago when his skinny frame needed coaxing to fill out. "Besides, I'll be back before Stoick's beard hits the table!"

"Lass, you're a menace!" Marta hollered in her heavy accent, but there was a grudging fondness in her tone as she waved you off, already turning to scold the porridge boy again.

You burst out of the Great Hall into the crisp morning, the wind tugging at your hair as it carried the tang of salt and pine from the cliffs and mountainside. Berk sprawled before you, alive with the clatter of hammers, the bleat of sheep, and the distant roar of a blow horns and shouts overhead—probably one of the twins stirring trouble again.

Your boots pounded the dirt path, the bundle clutched tight against your chest, warm and fragrant. The village blurred past—old man Mildew grumbling at his cabbages, a gaggle of kids chasing a chicken—and your heart thudded with a mix of urgency and something softer, something that always stirred when you thought of Hiccup.

He'd be waiting, probably perched on that rocky outcrop overlooking the harbor you two always shared, scribbling in his sketchbook or muttering to himself about some wild new idea. Ever since you were kids, he'd drag you into his schemes—mapping new ideas that would benefit Berk, testing contraptions that usually ended in singed eyebrows or a stern lecture from Gobber.

You'd been his shadow, his anchor, and somewhere along the way now both at the tender age of fifteen, that quiet crush you waved off had settled in your chest and blossomed more unwillingly. Only sometimes you'd hope he'd never see you as just the bread making Viking who tagged along. A small hope that flickered every time his green eyes lit up with a grin meant just for you—though you'd long convinced yourself it was nothing more than friendship to save yourself.

The path climbed, and your breaths came sharp as you rounded the final bend. There he was, silhouetted against the rising sun, a lanky figure hunched over, legs dangling off the cliff. Hiccup's auburn hair caught the light, tousled by the breeze, and his head was bent over something—probably another madcap invention doomed to earn Gobber's exasperated sigh.

You slowed, catching your breath, and felt that familiar tug in your chest. As you stepped forward, cheesecloth in hand, the wind carried a faint growling-rumble from him, and a laugh slipped from your lips—half at the oddity of the sound, half at the sight of Hiccup's hunched frame as he scribbled away in his journal.

His head snapped up at the sound, green eyes catching yours as you crested the hill. A grin flickered across his face—real and unguarded, the kind he saved just for you—and he set down his tools quickly as you closed the distance. You dropped onto the grass beside him, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Brought you your fave again," you said, unwrapping the cloth with a flourish. "My original, egg-cheese, meat breakfast muffin!"

Hiccup's eyes lit up, and he snatched it from your hands, sinking his teeth into it without a second's pause. "Gods, this is my favorite," he mumbled through a mouthful, voice warm with that earnestness that always tugged at you.

You smiled, pulling out your own and taking a bite, the rich tang of the cheese and smoky meat settling on your tongue. For a moment, you both fell quiet, chewing in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, painting Berk's jagged cliffs in hues in warm orange and blue. The village sprawled below, a patchwork of roofs and smoke trails, framed by the endless sea stretching toward the horizon. It was a rare stillness, the kind that felt like a held breath.

Hiccup finished first, brushing crumbs from his tunic with a satisfied sigh, then turned to you, his face alight with sudden energy. "I did it," he said, voice buzzing with excitement.

"Finished your food first?" You respond sarcastically.

"Yes, but no—Finished the dragon trap. It's gonna catch a Night Fury—the Night Fury."

You nodded, still savoring your muffin, as he leaned closer to you.

"This is it, y'know? If I can pull this off, everyone'll finally notice me—Dad, the village, everybody. Maybe I'll even. . ." He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck. "Maybe even get a girlfriend."

You kept chewing, the meat turning a little tougher in your mouth as you tilted your head, listening. His eyes were fixed on the horizon now, bright with dreams you'd heard a hundred times—dreams you'd helped him sketch on scraps of parchment, dreams you'd quietly wished might one day include you. But you nodded anyway, letting him ramble on about the trap's clever gears and the glory he was chasing.

"You'll do it, Hiccup. You've been planning this for months now. Now we just wait for that dragon. Hopefully, of course, without destruction on its part. . ."

His eyes flicked to yours, brightening, and he nodded—a small, grateful smile breaking through his usual tangle of nerves. "Thanks," he said, soft but sure, the word landing like a spark between you. "And for having my back on this."

For a beat, you held his gaze, that ache in your chest flaring, before the distant clang of the forge bell snapped you both back to Berk's relentless rhythm.

"Gobber's gonna skin you if you don't get back to work," you teased, brushing crumbs from your hands as you stood. Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, and Marta's probably got a ladle with your name on it," he shot back, smirking. You laughed, hefting the empty cloth.

"Meet you at the forge later? After I've survived the Great Hall, and you've dodged Gobber's wrath?"

"Deal," he said, already turning back to his workbench, muttering about adjustments. You lingered a moment, watching him, then turned down the path, the rumble fading into the morning's hum.

The hours slipped by in a blur of Hairy Hooligan chaos. Back at the Great Hall, you dodged Marta's sharp tongue and the Vikings' endless appetites, morning, afternoon, and now evening. Your hands stirring while your mind wandered to Hiccup's trap—and the plans to come after.

Meanwhile, the village churned on: smoke curled from chimneys, sheep bleated, and somewhere, a horn sounded signaling another practice raid thwarted. By evening, the sun hung low, casting sharp shadows over Berk's rugged sprawl, and you finally broke free, boots kicking up dust as you headed for the forge again.

The forge glowed like a dragon's maw, heat rippling the air as you approached. Gobber's voice boomed over the clang of metal, his hammer-hand punctuating a lecture you could've recited by heart. "—and if ye think I'm cleanin' up another one of yer 'genius' messes, Hiccup, ye've got another thing comin'!"

Hiccup stood by the anvil, head ducked, fiddling with a tangle of rope and gears that looked suspiciously like his trap. He caught your eye as you stepped in, flashing a sheepish grin—half apology, half plea for rescue.

"Saved by the baker," you called, leaning against a workbench. Gobber wheeled around, his eyes narrowing, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Oi, lass, don't encourage him! This one's been goofin' about all mornin'—nearly set me eyebrows on fire, he did." Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, but Gobber barreled on, waving his hammer-hand.

"And you—shouldn't ye be feedin' the village instead of nursin' this troublemaker's ego?"

"Already did," you said, crossing your arms. "Thought I'd see if Hiccup's still in one piece." Hiccup rolled his eyes, but the grin lingered as he hefted the trap's frame, its metal glinting in the forge light.

"It's ready," he said, voice brimming with that restless energy you knew too well. "Tonight's the night—I can feel it."

Gobber snorted, muttering something about "fool's hope," but you caught the flicker of pride in his gruff stare at Hiccups invention. The forge hummed around you, a heartbeat of steel and sparks. Whatever Hiccup was chasing, it was coming fast and it almost made you nervous.

The forge's glow dimmed into the late dark evening, shadows stretching long across the cluttered workbench. Gobber's patience finally snapped, his hammer-hand clanging against an anvil for emphasis as you too went on and on about things he could care less about.

"That's it—I can't be around ye two anymore tonight! Bunch of misfits, schemin' and chatterin' like a pair of natterin' nannies. Don't blow the place up, ye hear?" He stomped toward the door, muttering under his breath about needing a tankard of mead and a moment's peace, leaving the air buzzing with his departure.

You side glanced at Hiccup, catching the glint in his eye as he turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. "Finally," he said, running up to his dragon trap tucked away near the corner space. You admitted it looked really neat, like some of his previous inventions—this was a contraption as wild as his imagination. It didn't surprise you.

"C'mere, look at this." He said excitedly patting it before he crouched beside it, beckoning you closer, and launched into an explanation that tumbled out faster than a terrible terror could attack.

"See, the tension's all in the springs here," he said, tapping a coiled mechanism. "One good shot, and it'll snap shut—bam!—right around the Night Fury's entire body. Fastest dragon out there, but it won't see this coming." His hands danced over the trap, tracing ropes and pulleys, his voice alive with that reckless hope you'd always admired.

You leaned in, squinting at the tangle. "Looks like it could catch a Gronckle. . .or maybe just tangle you up instead," you teased, nudging a loose rope with your index finger. He huffed a laugh, adjusting it with a quick tug.

"Nah, it's foolproof. Well, mostly. Okay, fifty-fifty." He grinned. "But if it works, Dad'll have to notice. The village, too."

"And Astrid?" you added before you could stop, keeping your tone light despite the sting. He flushed, shrugging, and you let it drop, pointing at a jagged edge.

"Better smooth that down—don't want your Night Fury limping away with a grudge."

"Good call," he said, grabbing a file and setting to work. You traded ideas back and forth—tightening bolts, testing the trigger—until the forge grew quiet, the night pressing in around you. Hours slipped away, the fire dwindling to embers behind you both as you sat waiting on the cliff again, and still no raid came. Hiccup's shoulders slumped as he stared out at the dark, star-strewn sky expression disappointed.

"No dragons," he muttered, disappointment lacing his voice. "Thought tonight was it."

You placed a hand on his back, forcing a smile. "They're just waiting to catch you off guard. C'mon, let's call it—Gobber'll have our hides if we're dead on our feet tomorrow." He nodded, reluctant, and you both trudged out, locking the forge behind you.

The village lay silent under a shroud of clouds, and you parted ways—him to his house, you to yours—carrying the weight of an empty home to go back to.

Hours later, the skies still clung tight to the new morning night, heavy and restless, when the first screech tore through Berk. A dragon raid—fierce and sudden. You were already in the forge, having been shaken up by Gobber barging in and yelling at you for help.

Sweat streaking your face as you and Gobber worked in a frantic rhythm, the air thick with sparks and steel. Axes clattered onto the counter, swords hissed against the grindstone, and Vikings roared past the window and above, silhouettes against bursts of flame attempting to steal the sheep.

"Faster, lass!" Gobber bellowed, tossing a freshly sharpened blade to a burly warrior who barely grunted thanks before charging back into the fray.

"These beasts'll have us for breakfast if we don't arm this lot!" You nodded, hands steady despite the chaos, passing out axes like loaves of bread on a feast day. The forge was a storm—metal clanging, fire roaring, and the stench of singed wool and leather as a stray ember caught someone's cloak.

Then the sound of rushing footsteps was heard, and Hiccup stumbled in, all gangly limbs and wild hair. "I've got it—tonight's the night!" he whispers shouts to you. His eyes were bright, desperate, like he'd finally glimpsed his chance.

You glanced up from the axe you were sharpening, catching his gaze, and flashed a quick grin before continuing to sharpen the blade down for a waiting warrior. Gobber spun around; hammer-hand raised mid-swing.

"Oh, nice of ye to join the party!" he bellowed, sarcasm dripping like forge sweat. "I thought ye'd been carried off!"

You snorted, hefting a different weapon, a sword, onto the grindstone, sparks showering your apron. "Aye, by a dragon too picky to eat him? It couldn't stomach all that brawn," you quipped, shooting Hiccup a smirk.

He grinned, shoving your shoulder playfully as he hauled a giant hammer to the wall and moved closer to you, nearly tripping over a pile of scrap metal.

"Who, me?" Hiccup said, puffing out his chest. "Nah, come on—I'm way too muscular for their taste. They wouldn't know what to do with all. . .this." He flexed, all gangly bravado, the gesture so absurdly exaggerated you choked on a laugh, even as you handed off the sword to a Viking who didn't spare you a glance.

Gobber rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?" he joked, turning back to the anvil with a grunt.

You smirked, but the high demands of Berk's warriors drowned out any retort—shouts for "More axes!" and "Hurry it up!" pulling you back to the grindstone. Your hands flew, sharpening steel, passing tools, your focus split between the work and Hiccup's whirlwind energy as he darted past you, dodging Gobber's half-hearted swipe to reach the window.

Hiccup wrestled getting to work muttering about angles and tension, a lanky form of determination. You tracked him with quick glances, axe blades singing under your hands, too buried in the rhythm to catch every word of their brewing argument.

Then Hiccup's voice cut through—"I might even get a date"—and your head snapped up, interest flaring with small hope.

Your eyes flickered to him, catching the hopeful tilt of his grin, until a Viking's bellow—"Oi, lass, where's my sword?!"—jerked you back. You muttered an apology, hands scrambling to finish the blade, ears still tuned to their banter.

"If ye want to get out there and fight dragons, ye need to stop all. . .this," Gobber said, waving his hammer-hand at Hiccup in a broad, exasperated arc. You turned, mid-motion, eyebrow raised as you caught the tail end.

Hiccup blinked, incredulous. "But you just pointed to all of me. . ."

"Yes! That's it! Stop being all of you," Gobber shot back, flashing a winning grin that made your stomach twist. You shook your head, jaw tightening, and slammed a pile of sharpened tools onto the counter for the next wave of Vikings.

Gobber's jabs at Hiccup always stung you sideways—too close to the scorn the village heaped on him—and you buried the flare of anger in the work, pounding steel harder than necessary. They kept at it, trading barbs over the forge's roar, while you stayed silent, letting the clatter of metal drown out the urge to snap.

Then a shout shattered the air—"Night Fury!"—and the forge trembled as a shadow-streaked past, unseen but felt, a ripple of dread through the chaos.

Gobber straightened, peg leg thudding. "Mind the fort, ye two! They need me out there!" He wheeled on you both, hammer-hand jabbing.

"Stay. Put. There. . .both of ye. Ye know exactly what I mean." With that, he was gone, charging into the fray with a bellow, leaving the forge quieter but no less alive.

You turned to Hiccup, wide-eyed, the air between you crackling. You knew that look—the glint of a chance he'd been chasing since he first sketched that trap. "You going?" you asked, voice low but steady, a hint of worry.

"Yep!" he shouted, already snagging the trap's frame. "I'll see you soon!" He bolted for the door, a blur of lanky limbs and reckless hope, and you watched him go, heart thudding against your ribs. The forge hummed along with yelling Vikings piling up, embers glowing all around outside, and the Night Fury's sound echoing everything growing chaotic.

"Be careful. . ." You had whispered after he could let you say anything.

You stood alone in the heat, the air thick with soot and the tang of molten steel and turned back to the grindstone. Vikings pounded at the wood framed window, hands outstretched—"Axe, lass!" "Sword, now!"—and you moved quickly, sharpening blades, tossing them out, your arms burning but relentless.

You kept your head down, hands focused on the job at hand, but your mind flickered to Hiccup—out there with that rickety trap, chasing a dream he worked so hard to build. You only prayed he'd be ok.

The raid raged on, a blur of shouts mixed with dragon's roars and flame. You sharpened another sword, passing it back to a warrior whose beard was singed black and strands still burning. The forge was your second battlefield besides the kitchens, and you held it—alone, steady, until a distant crash jolted the air, sharper than the usual din.

You stayed put, as Gobber had ordered, piling blades on the counter before they could take them, ears straining for any hint of Hiccup's fate. The sky lightened, a bruised gray creeping over the horizon as morning began to peak, when a new sound reached you—Stoick's bellow, loud enough to rattle the forge walls, followed by the murmur of a gathering crowd.

Wiping sweat and soot from your face, you stepped outside, the dawn air sharp against your skin. Down the hill, the village had clumped around the wreckage of a torch tower—flames licking its splintered remains. Hiccup stood at the center, shoulders hunched, dwarfed by Stoick's towering frame.

A Monstrous Nightmare roared, pinned by a toppled net, and Stoick wrestled it back, barking orders—"Take it to the pens!"—before rounding on his son. You edged closer, boots crunching on charred earth, catching the tail end of the lecture as the crowd watched, a mix of pity, shame and scorn in their eyes.

". . .Every time you step outside, disaster follows!" Stoick thundered, his voice a hammer strike. "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter's almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"

Hiccup shifted; voice small but defiant. "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?" A few Vikings gasped offended, while you covered your mouth to hide the laugh, but Stoick's glare silenced them.

"This isn't a joke, Hiccup! Why can't you follow the simplest orders?" he demanded, hands clenched.

"I—I can't stop myself," Hiccup stammered, gesturing helplessly. "I see a dragon, and I have to just. . .kill it, you know? It's who I am, Dad. . ."

Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation carving lines into his face. "You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them." He straightened, turning to the crowd.

"Get back to your homes!" Then, softer, to Hiccup, "Get back to the house." He glanced at Gobber, who'd limped up beside him. "Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up."

Gobber nodded, slapping Hiccup with his good hand. "Aye, come on." The crowd dispersed, muttering, and Hiccup trudged forward, head down, hands shoved into his tunic as he ignored the other teens taunts. You stepped out from the edge, heart twisting at the slump in his frame, and caught up as he passed. Gently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to say I'm here without words.

He glanced at you, eyes shadowed but softening, a faint, tired smile flickering. "See you later," he murmured, barely audible, and you nodded, letting your hand fall as Gobber steered him toward the house. You watched them go—Hiccup's lanky silhouette beside Gobber's hobbling bulk—until they vanished up the path, the weight of his failure and your quiet worry settling like the ash around you. Lingering a moment, the weight of his slumped shoulders etched into your mind, then turned back to the forge.

The chaos had ebbed, leaving charred wood and bent steel in its wake, and you busied yourself stacking weapons, the rhythm dulling the knot in your chest. But it didn't stop your ears from straining for his footsteps, or your thoughts from circling back to that scream he made down the hill.

By mid-morning, you'd exhaustedly traded the forge for the Great Hall, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in dough like every other day before it. This time with barely any sleep. The air hummed with yeast and mead. The low grumble of Vikings in the hall nursing wounds with pride over their porridge.

Marta barked orders as she always did, her ladle a scepter, but you barely heard her—your mind was still out there, with Hiccup, wondering what mess he'd stumbled into now, and how you wished your shift would end so you can visit him or sleep.

Flour dusted your arms as you kneaded, the familiar pull and press a tether to sanity, when a shadow slipped through the door. 

Hiccup—eyes wide, darting like a hare caught in the open. He sidled up, voice a hushed rush. "I hit something," he said, tugging your sleeve with that restless energy you couldn't ignore. "Last night, with the trap—I think it worked. C'mon, you've gotta see." His breath was quick, his grin half-thrill, half-panic, and it left a spark of unease in your gut.

You froze, dough clinging to your fingers, and shot a glance at Marta. Her back was turned, but her glare could burn holes through stone. "Hiccup, I'm up to my elbows here—," you started, but his pleading look cut you off, green eyes bright with the kind of wild hope you'd never learned to say no to. You sighed, wiping your hands on your apron. "Fine. But if Marta skins me, you're baking the next five batches."

"Deal," he said, already halfway out the door. You followed, ducking Marta's wrath and the curious stares of a few Vikings, your boots hitting the dirt as Hiccup led you uphill, past the village's edge. The woods loomed, damp and tangled, and he rambled as you went—words tripping over each other about the trap's "perfect shot," the bola's arc, how he'd heard something crash. You stumbled over roots, swatting branches, and tossed him a dry look.

"Perfect shot, huh? Or did you just knock down another tower and call it a win?" you teased, dodging a low limb. He huffed a laugh, shoving you lightly.

"Come on, really? This is it—the Night Fury. I know it." His voice trembled with conviction, and you didn't argue, just kept pace, the air growing thick with pine, earth and the faint tang of rain. You didn't bother to counter, simply matching his stride while you two made it deeper into the woods.

The woods closed the deeper you got—turning into forest. The damp earth tugging at your boots, your heels throbbing after what felt like hours—though you couldn't be sure. Maybe one, maybe two; time blurred by quickly. You hadn't wanted to disappoint him, not with that fire in his eyes. So, you kept on, even as he groaned every mile, his makeshift map—a mess of 'X' marks scratched into his sketchbook—crumpling in his grip.

He edged closer to you, shoving the map under your nose. "Here—see? It's gotta be near," he muttered, tracing a jagged line with a dirt-smudged finger. You squinted at it, biting back a smirk at the chaos of his art, and shifted your weight, wincing as your heels protested.

"Hmm. . .Hiccup?" you said, slowing to a stop. "You think maybe we should head back and try again tomorrow?"

He sighed deeply, a gust of frustration that seemed to deflate him, and snapped the book shut. "Oh, the gods hate me," he grumbled, voice dripping with self-pity. "Some people lose their knife, or their mug. No, not me." You froze, biting your lip to stifle a snort, watching him trudge on, still ranting to the trees—and you.

"—I only manage to lose an entire dragon," he spat, slapping a broken branch in his path. It whipped back, smacking him square in the face, and that broke you. A burst of laughter erupted, echoing around you both as you doubled over, hands on your knees, the sound of your laugh leaving you silent at its peak from sheer force. Hiccup whirled, cheeks flushed and waved a desperate hand to cover your mouth. "Shh! Shush, shush—quiet!" he pleaded, voice a frantic hiss.

Your smile faded as his urgency hit, and you ducked lower beside him, breath catching. The forest felt quiet suddenly—too still—and a rustle rippled through the underbrush. Hiccup's wide-eyed glance met yours, a shared pulse of adrenaline, and you crept forward together, his crumpled map forgotten in his fist. The trail dipped into a ravine, steep and shadowed, and he slowed, breath catching as he heaves—quickly ducking.

"There," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. You peered over the edge, and your stomach twisted. There it was—the Night Fury—bound in a snarl of ropes and bola weights, black scales glinting like wet stone against the earth. Its wings still, pinned, and its chest unmoving.

"Hiccup. . ." you breathed, voice barely a thread. "You actually did it," you murmured, awe tinged with worry, your gaze darting between them. He swallowed, face pale, and you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the flicker of something deeper.

He edged closer, pulling his knife from his belt. You lunged to grab his arm, roots jabbing your knees, but he slipped free, clambering over the ravine's lip before you could stop him. He ducked behind a boulder—the only shield between him and the beast—and you crouched, watching, worry gnawing at you. Your lip stung as you bit it hard, tasting iron, eyes locked on his lanky frame huddled in the dirt.

He peeked out, voice rising, loud and brash. "I—I did it! Ohh, this. . .this fixes everything! Yes!" He straightened, chest puffed, and you rose too, both of you bold with the certainty the dragon was dead—its stillness a grim trophy. "I have brought down this mighty beast!" he crowed, stepping forward to plant a foot on its side, triumphant.

Then the Night Fury twitched—a shudder of muscle under scales—and Hiccup froze, the blade shaking in his grip. You stumbled forward, the air thick with earth and the beast's ragged breaths, its green eyes snapping open to bore into his. Very much alive.

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

[planetpiastri]

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username5 yeah they follow each other lol i don't think they've ever met though username6 they've definitely interacted, but yeah i think they're just like online acquaintances haha

ynusername nice berries mate

oscarpiastri Thanks, I've heard that before

liked by ynusername, oscarpiastri, and 251,876 others

mclaren Happy Birthday Oscar! 🥳

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username7 guys why's oscar kinda...

username8 WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN??

oscarpiastri 😁😁😁

ynusername happy birthday. oscarpiastri Ok that's a lot of negative energy please step back username9 help these interactions are always so random??

username10 oscar's waist looking SNATCHED omg

username11 guys is this a safe space for me to confess something?

landonorris no, keep it to yourself

ynusername

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ynusername finally releasing a single woohoo!! 'bark bark' coming out april 19th on spotify and apple music ^-^

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username12 OMG YESSSS

username13 WHAT YN THIS IS SO EXCITING!!!! CONGRATS!!!!!

oscarpiastri What's it about

ynusername you have to stream the song and find out silly oscarpiastri Is it about me ynusername oh my god

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others

ynusername the type of face you'd go to war for (look past the camera, he's shy)

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landonorris shucks, i'm blushing

ynusername i am so obviously not talking about you

username14 NEW MUSIC WHEN??

ynusername the single JUST came out CHILL!

username15 the last slide??

username16 new music hint? ynusername no that's just me talking about oscar and lando landonorris ....which one am i? ynusername i literally called you a slut nine times in suzuka username17 so oscar is lust???? oscarpiastri Thank you Barbie!!

liked by mclaren, ynusername, and 516,392 others

oscarpiastri Busy busy week, but glad the secret's out. My girlfriend is cooler and funnier than yours, by the way.

view all 7,990 comments

ynusername you're so hot i am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

ynusername the hair?? the smile?? the grabbable waist?? WOW!!

ynusername gonna write another song about you

ynusername if i saw you in the street i'd catcall you

ynusername i want you.

oscarpiastri I love you too

username18 FKSDHJGLKHDJG IM SO HAPPY YN CAN BE UNHINGED AND CRAZY NOW GOOD FOR HER GOOD FOR THEM!!

request: hiiii babe! i love ur account! i was wondering if u could do an oscar piastri x meme rapper gf with an @addy_kate fc. like shes actually really funny and her music is oddly good (like tmg).

tagging: @thearchieves @sheridamn @nikfigueiredo @charlig123456789 @ilove-tswizzle @aandreea2005 @sideboobrry @vellicora @eire-the-egg @marymustdie @cocote1410 @taygrls @koalapastries @vroomvroommuppett @nichmeddar @d3kstar @333kiki @ririyulife @resident-swiftie @zimm04 @jupiter-je-taime @ever_bizzare @blue-isnt-avaliable @iifloweringnightsii @graciewrote @formulaal @m0cha-bunny @marvelsimps @mehrmonga @elliegrey2803 @theblueblub @gwginnyweasley @sltwins @f1kenzzz @alexmarie29 @donttouchthegnote @clemswrld @hollieeelol @leireggsworld @luvvtrent @maddie-naps @lilcowboy0 @tygecjjd @skepvids @bwddermilch @pnkwhskyprncss @notawc @landossainz @janegxi @chaotic_version @lookatitlaterlol @cometsrodrigo @lizzypiastri @nixisracing @lavviee @yaesflorist

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[wendichester]

🐇.•*¨`*•. easter blessing,

summary. you're working a case with the brothers. it gets festive.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader genre. crack

wordcount. 599

notes / warnings. happy easter babies 🐰🗿

You’d like to say this is the weirdest hunt you’ve ever been on.

But it’s really not. Which might be worse.

“So let me get this straight,” you say, squinting down at the crime scene. “We’re hunting... the Easter Bunny?”

Sam, bless his over-researched soul, doesn’t even blink.

“Technically? Probably a pagan fertility god that predates Christianity by like a few thousand years. But yeah. Bunny.”

Dean makes a face and kicks a trail of shredded pink plastic eggs off the sidewalk.

“This is a new low,” he mutters. “I didn’t survive hell to get murdered by some pastel-colored Bugs Bunny ripoff.”

You don’t point out that the corpse in front of you has literal jellybeans spilling out of its mouth. Or that the bite marks on the neck are unmistakably rodent-shaped.

The victim’s last expression is... haunted.

Sam flips through a lore book like it’s a normal Tuesday.

“Looks like Oschter Hase,” he mutters. “Old German folklore. Bringer of fertility, eggs, springtime.”

Dean snorts.

“Bringer of death now.”

You nudge a marshmallow Peep out of the gore with your boot. It's still warm.

Disgusting.

Fast forward to nightfall.

You’re in a graveyard (classic), surrounded by cracked eggshells and tufts of fur, holding a flamethrower.

Because, apparently, bunnies from hell don’t like fire.

Sam’s reading Latin out loud. Dean’s loading silver buckshot into a sawed-off. And you’re wondering if you can ever eat a Cadbury Creme Egg again without getting war flashbacks.

“I see it!” Dean shouts suddenly.

You turn.

And there it is.

Bounding toward you with bloodstained fur, beady red eyes, and an oversized wicker basket slung over its back like some kind of festive serial killer.

“That is not a bunny,” you hiss.

“Technically—” Sam starts.

“Shut up, Sam!”

The bunny shrieks. Shrieks. Like a banshee doing an exorcism. It launches straight at Dean, claws out, teeth bared, ears flapping like demonic wings.

Dean yells something that sounds like “SON OF A B—” and goes down hard under a pile of fur and rage.

“DEAN!”

You turn the flamethrower on and dive into the fray.

The bunny rears up like a fluffy demon spawn just as you pull the trigger. Fire roars. Fur ignites. Sam’s still chanting. Dean’s swearing. Somewhere in the chaos, jellybeans explode like tiny grenades.

The smell is horrific.

The thing lets out a final ungodly screech before collapsing in a pile of flaming tinsel and fur.

“I think that’s it,” Sam pants, stepping over the burning corpse like he hasn’t just witnessed seasonal trauma incarnate.

Dean rolls over and groans.

“Did anyone get the plate on that satanic thumper?”

You grin, a little breathless, a lot singed.

“Happy Easter, boys.”

An hour later, you’re at the diner down the road. Covered in soot, minorly concussed, and all staring at the very suspicious chocolate bunnies in the display case.

“So,” you say, sipping burnt coffee. “We’re never doing this holiday again, right?”

“Agreed,” Dean grunts.

Sam hums.

“Well, there’s still Beltane in a few weeks—”

“NO,” you and Dean both snap.

Dean raises his glass of whiskey like a toast.

“To never trusting rabbits again.”

“Or Sam’s German pagan crap.”

“Or candy.”

“Okay, not candy,” Dean amends quickly, grabbing a pack of mini eggs off the table. “I’m still emotionally attached to sugar.”

You lean back in the booth, bruised, exhausted, and vaguely traumatized.

But alive.

And kind of weirdly proud.

Because you, Sam, and Dean just saved a town from a deranged ancient fertility god disguised as the Easter Bunny. With Latin, fire, and questionable decision-making skills.

Just another day in paradise.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[xwritingdixonx]

Is It Better To Speak or To Die? | Daryl Dixon |

----------

Masterlist

Summary: After being rescued from Woodbury by Rick's group, you struggle with living a "normal" life in the walls of the prison. The trauma's inflicted on you at the hands of the Govenour drag you to the deepest depths. A certain archer is the onyl one who can drag you back out.

Warnings: slow burn, language, smoking, grief, depression, talk of body scars, implied smut, implied past abuse, Governor (enough said)

Word Count: aprox. 10k

Era: Prison, Alexandria.

Song Recommendation: Cinnamon Girl - Lana Del Ray, Would That I - Hozier

----------

The survivors of Woodbury had called The Prison “home” for only a week. The war and downfall of the Governor and Woodbury were still fresh in everyone’s gut, though others were making themselves comfortable very quickly. You were not. It was such an irony to you. Taking shelter in a prison as if this world wasn’t a prison. As if the traumas of the past year of survival didn’t hold you by your throat. Your own mental prison.

The bowl you held still warmed your hands. Though you knew no appetite arose in your stomach, you still took the bowl Carol offered just to be polite. Standing alone, your back leaned against the support beam of the gazebo all the benches sat under for meals. You had been a part of Woodbury...but you certainly hadn’t been a part of the community. Not near the end at least.

Most people steered clear of you. Avoiding your tired hardened eyes and threatening gazes. Avoiding the tenseness in your persona. Completely removing themselves from the possibility of having an interaction with the emotionless shell you had become. Others were compassionate, showing you any empathy they could bear. You’d get a polite head nod and warm smile occasionally, though you never returned it.

In Woodbury, no one asked questions, they talked and gossiped amongst one another but never bothered. But at the prison, you were new. Fresh meat. So in turn, you had your fair share of stares and whispers from Rick’s group.

Carol had become your latest bother. In the mornings, just like today, people would slowly make their way to line up for their share of breakfast. Your desire was to simply come out in the crisp morning air and smoke a cigarette, attempting to forget the night of terrors you encountered when you closed your eyes. You’d be sure to isolate yourself a bit away so the smoke didn’t bother anyone’s morning. But Carol simply wouldn’t accept it.

The last few days she’d noticed the lack of breakfast passing your lips. You’d smoke a cigarette and then wait to eat a proper meal for dinner. Reminding her of another certain someone.

She couldn’t make you line up and wait like everyone else. She couldn’t make you come and sit at a table and be social. So, she’d make you your own bowl and walk it over to you, giving you a polite smile, and then walk away. She did this for the past 3 days, catching onto your pattern early on.

“How’s she doing?” Rick drawled as Carol handed him his own bowl of powdered eggs and steamed potatoes. “Can bring a horse to water but you can’t make ‘em drink.” Carol joked back, Rick nodded in response and thanked her for his bowl.

Rick had been keeping an eye on you ever since you’d arrived. Unlike most of Woodbury, who willingly came running out to be rescued, you were found by Rick. The door to the room he found you in had been locked from the outside.

Everything he found out about you from that point had been from the mouths of others. You hadn’t even used words to tell him your name, he had been told by someone else. “Morning.” Rick greeted Daryl who was already almost finished his own breakfast, “Mornin’.” He stood with Daryl, neither of the men having time to sit with all the plans to improve the prison.

Daryl followed Rick’s gaze, noticing the way Rick seemed to be lost in thought. When the gaze ended on you, Daryl scoffed. “Figured that one out yet?” He asked, shoving a spoon of egg in his mouth. “Not yet.” Daryl had tried himself to scramble for puzzle pieces of you but had no success. You didn’t talk. Not a word, not even a whisper. There was a part of him that was intrigued by you, a part of him that wanted to dissect. But there was the other part that told him to mind his business.

“Good morning.” Riley begins to pass by, greeting Rick and Daryl. If the term Southern Bell was a person, that would be Riley. Blonde hair, dark emerald eyes, sweet smile, curvy in all the right places, and a smooth southern drawl. Smooth and sweet, nothing like your jagged sharp edges. Riley had been brought in with the Woodbury group and quickly made herself useful in running her mouth…but also in learning medical. “Morning.” Riley’s green eyes darted in the direction the men were looking. Because how dare their attention be on anyone but her.

“I feel so bad for her…” She commented, putting herself into their conversation. Rick and Daryl both gave each other a glance. Rick wanted to know about you from you. Not from the gossip and storytelling of others. “I swear it’s like her mouth was sewn into a frown when Jackson died.” Riley actually looked quite empathetic when she said this. “Who was that?”

“Her twin brother.”

Rick took a pause from eating his breakfast to let this new information marinate into his brain. Though neither of them asked for it, Riley continued. “When they first got to Woodbury, everything was fine. But then the Governor wanted Y/n to be one of his soldiers.” Using air quotations at the word soldiers.

“Y/n refused over and over. One night, Governor took Y/n and Jackson for a walk outside of Woodbury’s walls and Jackson didn’t come back…Governor said he got bit but…” Riley’s words trailed off as she looked at your stone-like features. “Y/n joined him after that…some people thought he killed Jackson and used it to force her to.” Her tone was uneasy as if the Governor would come to get her if she dared speak of it.

Or maybe she was more afraid of you.

“After that, I mean..” Riley scoffed dramatically and tried to ease the tension with a laugh, “I-I shouldn’t be talking about this anyway.” She gave the men a sheepish smile before swiftly walking away, joining a full table.

"Forgot how much people love to gossip huh?"

"Hmm," Daryl hummed in response. Rick took Daryl's empty bowl and stacked it on his own. "Gonna go give Judy her breakfast, alright?" As he nudged Daryl with his elbow, Daryl responded with a hum that was accompanied by a nod.

Daryl had learned the art of minding his business a long time ago. He didn't want people in his...so why pry into others?

You had finished your cigarette and smushed it into the concrete under your boot, now aimlessly poking around in the texture of the oatmeal. Carol frequently cooked her oatmeal for a tad too long and with too much liquid, giving it a mushy, snot like texture. It gave you another reason to skip out on breakfast but you at least wanted to try.

Daryl watched as you took a bite from the bowl. You moved around the food in your mouth, chewing slowly. The texture on your tongue was enough to turn you away. You looked in the direction of the bench where all of the younger children sat. Some talking with food still in their mouths. Their chattering stopped when they saw you approach like a dark gloomy cloud threatening rain.

Without saying a word, you placed your bowl in front of Patrick, offering him your share. Behind his thick glasses, he looked at the bowl then at you, and smiled. “Thanks Y/n.” You replied with a nod and walked away. Patrick was one of the few people from Woodbury who was consistently kind to you. He was always polite and never treated you any differently. You had actually heard him defend your name more than once. Perhaps he was just too young to feed into it but it was an act that didn’t go unappreciated by you.

And your act towards Patrick hadn’t gone unnoticed by Daryl. It wasn’t as if you had saved his life but you could’ve thrown your share away. Snuck over to the pig's pen and scraped it in. Instead, you gave it to a child.

Daryl would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't intrigued by you. He had never been intrigued by anyone in his life, though he couldn't deny the itch that was the mystery of you.

Two mornings after that one, Daryl had woken up particularly early. Readying himself to go outside the fences. There was a steady whisper amongst his friends the true reason he wondered out of the safety of the prison walls. The thought of The Governor still being alive haunted Daryl’s mind as it did the others. But no one would do what he did nearly every morning. No one except you.

Not many were typically up at this hour. The sun had barely risen and the morning air was still chilly from the night. When Daryl walked out into the courtyard, he didn’t expect to see you. He knew you were typically up earlier than others but not as early as him, not on days like this. You sat on the top of a picnic bench, feet planted where someone would typically sit. You faced away from Daryl but he could see the puff of smoke that typically followed you.

He could tell you weren’t in your typical nature. Despite the circumstances, you typically kept yourself put together. You wore a black long-sleeve fitted to your body and a pair of old gray sweatpants. Your hair was untamed and frizzy, having not been brushed yet. What had you up this early? What had you out of your cell so disheveled? And obviously, in such a rush?

The drag of the cigarette burned the back of your throat. It wasn’t as if you actually enjoyed smoking them. They tasted bad, itched your throat, and the smoke made your eyes water. But it felt as if holding them stopped your hands from shaking so badly every morning. It didn’t. But you’d keep lying to yourself and saying it did. You had woken up from another devilish dream, jolting you awake with a rapid heart and heavy breathing.

Typically you’d sit on the edge of your bed, head in your hands until your heart rate returned to normal. But on this particular morning, you couldn’t sit any longer in those walls, feeling the tightness of their build.

“Mornin.” He greeted you. What was he doing? Why was he even over here? Daryl’s mind ran with thoughts and questions as he awkwardly disrupted your own running mind.

You glanced over at him, your eyebrows furrowing with confusion. Someone disrupting you at this time wasn’t expected. As soon as Daryl saw the harsh glare hit your features, he regretted his decision. He didn’t know what to say to you or what he was doing. Both of your heads turned at the sound of a door shutting, Carol lugging a big pot over to the serving table.

“Carol’s gonna start setting up soon…if ya wanna get outta here.” Your eyes followed Carol for a second before meeting Daryl’s.

Daryl had never seen you face to face, he’d never even spoken a word to you. Your initial glare wore off your face and you gave Daryl a single nod, standing up from the bench. Daryl caught his bottom lip and nervously chewed at it. “M’going…out” Daryl pointed in the direction of the woods, “If ya wanna come.” You glanced between Daryl and the woods and thought for a second before giving him a proper nod.

“Alright. I’ll wait for ya at the gate with my bike.”

It didn’t take long for you to meet Daryl. You’d switched your pants out with jeans and your bare feet with boots. Accompanied with your backpack and a pair of fingerless gloves to fight the chilly morning. You had obviously run a comb through your hair as well.

Daryl appreciated the space you gave him on the bike. You sat an inch or two back, your arms loose around him. Typically when people rode with him they held on tight, maybe a little too tight and too close for Daryl’s comfort, but you didn’t. A steady routine had been built between you and the archer after that morning. Along with a growing friendship.

Carol had picked up on this growing routine. By the fourth day, she began waking up even earlier, packing both of you lunches and a snack as if she were a mother sending her children to school.

The first few days your silence made Daryl uneasy. But soon, he actually began to enjoy your company. He even enjoyed your silence. It came in handy when he was tracking a deer or bunny.

The two of you had created your own language of looks, touches, and whistles. One morning you had gotten separated from Daryl while tracking and the song of the whistle was born.

The once colorful leaves were now a dirty brown and crunched awfully loud when you stepped on them. The early Fall months were slowly becoming even colder which meant being on the lookout for anything edible became far more important. Especially meat. Daryl had begun to teach you how to track on your own, which meant the two of you could cover more ground on the same hunt.

Your footsteps were steady and quiet, your eyes trained on the consistent tussle of the leaves. There was a specific herd of deer that had been on Daryl’s radar that he’d spotted a few mornings ago. Daryl walked a few feet behind you, checking that the tracks you eyed were accurate.

The leaves began to blend together, and the steady path you found was now lost from your sight. You kneeled down and dug the leaves away from the ground hoping the tracks would be embedded in the dirt. But the ground was too cold and dense to be marked with anything. It was when you turned to face Daryl and accept your defeat that he was no longer there.

A sense of panic seized through you. Your eyes scanned around the surrounding tree lines for a sign of his silhouette but you saw none. You’re fine, you told yourself, but the comfort Daryl’s presence provided was now gone and you were beginning to spiral. You didn’t know these woods well and you didn’t know your way back to the prison from here.

Out of sheer desperation, you brought your lips together and let out a two-tone whistle. You gave it a second of silence and just as you were about to repeat, a long one-tone whistle replied back. Daryl quickly came back through an opening in the trees looking as if he had run back to you. His eyes were filled with panic. “Ya alright?” You nodded, seeing him again immediately put you at ease. “M’sorry. Found the tracks, they go off this way.”

Daryl spent a lot of time studying you. It wasn’t intentional…but he couldn’t help but pay attention to every detail. He knew when something was on your mind by the way you dazed off more or the more cigarettes you smoked. Or the way you fiddled with the sleeves of your shirts and jackets. He understood the different expressions on your face and what every one of them meant. You expressed yourself a lot through your eyebrows and eyes. No matter what expression, your eyes were always filled with such sadness. You never smiled. Even on days when Daryl felt good and felt as if he was going to have some major breakthrough, you never did.

Daryl enjoyed what he’d built with you over these last few months but his mind and body were becoming restless. He yearned for you, he yearned to know you. It was like being covered head to toe in mosquito bites. And then someone tying your hands so you’d never be able to scratch them. He wanted to hear your voice and he wanted to see you smile. He told himself that if he ever got to hear you laugh, he’d start praying and going to the prison chapel.

He realized he’d never even seen your teeth before, though it was an odd thought, it would be added to the pile of things that itched and irritated.

Then there were the other thoughts. The bites that itched but also ached and throbbed. He wanted you to sit closer to him on the bike and he wanted your arms tight around his torso. He wanted to hold your hands and stop them from shaking in the morning. He wanted to keep you close after running away from a hoard.

Daryl had spent his time dissecting you like a frog in science class.

Now, he had grown impatient of dissecting. He’d never wanted anyone how desperately he wanted you. You were his sweet tooth craving, you were his stomach-decaying hunger, and you were his fucking mosquito bite. But despite all of Daryls itches and desires, he'd never try to change you. He'd never push you out of the comfort of your silence though he would always be waiting.

The time spent with Daryl had put a piece of you at ease. You’d had grown a special attachment while Daryl had practically sewn you to his hip. The only time you weren’t with him was when it came time to shower or sleep.

You met Daryl every morning at the gate, ready to go wandering amongst the trees or scavenging. Some day's you made it back in time to catch lunch together. Especially if you had an early morning catch and had to get back before the meat went rancid. Most days, you'd find a quiet and safe spot to eat the lunch Carol packed and made it back to the prison before sunset and dinner.

There was peace in this routine...but you couldn't live in this routine forever. There were other duties that needed attention around the prison. The early morning adventures had become less but the time together never changed.

When you weren't enjoying the company of Daryl, you enjoyed the company of the garden. And when it was too late in the day for either of those things, you read books about the garden and thought about Daryl. You learned what crops could be grown in the winter and then looked for their seeds in old gardening stores...with Daryl.

Some, Most, Every night you thought of him. You thought of all the things he'd taught you, of his patience with you, and all the stories he told to fill the air. He'd tell you stories of him and Merle. You wanted to tell him that you knew Merle. That when the Governor locked you away, Merle would come visit you and sneak you food. That he was kind to you despite being such a prick to everyone else.

But no matter how much time and peace Daryl provided, the nightmares never left you. You still woke up with shaky hands and a racing mind and memories of your brother. Although you did cut the habit of reaching for a cigarette. Mainly because your pack was running low and it was becoming impossible to find any more.

Unknowing to you, Daryl had been finding them while scavenging and hiding them in spots you didn't look.

You grabbed the carrot at its very base and pulled it from the soft dirt, a soft snap following. The gloves that kept your fingers from freezing were covered in mud and bits of green. It had rained in the night which made the ground perfectly soft to harvest produce. So, instead of going out this morning, you and Daryl were in the gardens. Well, Daryl followed you to the gardens and wouldn't leave.

"This one alright?" Daryl held up a cabbage with his own gloved hand only a few feet away. You glanced over and gave him a approving nod. He tossed it into the basket that already held a mixture of carrots, celery, and fresh herbs for Carol's cabbage soup.

Carol had become less of a bother to you. In fact, you'd actually created a swift routine with her. You read and researched the books about plants and gardening while she read the ones about cooking. You were the farmer while she got to play Martha Stewart.

"How's it going you two?" Rick and Carol approached the gardens with a little extra pep in their step. The rain fall had made this winter day chillier which meant everyone was bundling up and multiple fires were lit in the courtyard and cell blocks for warmth. "S'alright!" Daryl shouted as he fought with a carrot that seemed to be deep rooted in the ground. From your kneeling position on the ground, you watched Daryl with amusement as he struggled. You would’ve thought that carrot was as big as a egg plant with all his pull and tug.

“You got it Pookie?” Carol teased, Rick and her both getting their own dose of amusement. “M’fine.” With one last pull, the carrot popped from the dirt. “Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’” Daryl held up the carrot, it was about the size of his thumb. You heard Rick and Carol have their own set of laughter, “Maybe you should stick to huntin’ those deer.” Rick said between a few chuckles. Daryl scoffed and tossed the baby carrot into the basket, as he kneeled down to continue picking, he caught your expression.

It was so small he could’ve missed it but he didn’t and he was so glad he hadn’t. You looked back down towards the dirt, a smirk tugging up the corners of your lips and poking your cheeks, dimpling them. For a second, it felt as if someone had punched Daryl in the chest. But it was there just as fast as it was gone.

From that moment on, Daryl wanted nothing more than to feel that again…as did you. You felt foolish. There was this awful gnawing inside you that was telling you every day what you already knew within your heart. He was chipping away at every wall you’d built up and beginning to break down the wall to a very soft spot of you. You had begun to feel like a turtle removed from its shell. Mushy, sensitive, and vulnerable. Gross.

"Hey Y/n!" The youngest Greene girl greeted. The community of the prison had begun to warm up to you. They no longer avoided you like the plague opting to actually say "hello" or "good morning" or maybe even a "goodnight." It had become very well known the closeness Daryl and you held and if people knew, people talked.

You looked up from your current book to Beth standing in the doorway of your cell clutching a small pile of tan books to herself. "Can I..come in?" She awkwardly shuffled her feet farther in and adjusted the books, you nodded. Beth let the curtain that covered your doorway drop and happily took a seat on your bed. You sat up straight and set your book of, Wildflowers Of All Seasons, on the bed beside you. While you adjusted yourself, Beth seemed to be studying your room.

It was more decorated than she had imagined. Your cell was on the upper level, one down from Daryl's. You had a very small wooden nightstand beside your bed that had various half-melted candles. Their wax dripped down the sides and embedded itself into the wood. On the wall across from your bed stood a very slim wooden table.

It was decorated with different trinkets and bottles you'd scavenged, a zippo lighter, and a stack of your growing book collection. Shoved underneath was a wire basket that held all your clothes. Your only 2 pairs of boots and bookbag sat beside it. Your everyday black, fleece-lined jacket was hung off the pole of your bed.

"I found these in the library and thought you might like them." Beth laid out the books on your bed, making it a point to show you every single one of them. Peterson - Field Guide to... They all read. They were very small and slim, a pale shade of tan, with various illustrations on the front pertaining to the title. Perfect to slip into your bag.

"I thought they'd be nice for you to carry when you go out in the mornings." Beth watched as you examined each book, "I wanted to grab them for you before anyone else found 'em." Beth held a very innocent hopeful smile the whole time she spoke to you but your silence was causing her to become uneasy. You picked up a specific one, Field Guide to Animal Tracks. You looked up at the girl and gave her a thin-lipped smile to show your appreciation.

A wide smile formed on her face and she left with a very sweet "Goodnight."

Glenn relieved Daryl from watch tower duty later than expected. It had to of been close to midnight when he got back to his cell. As he walked by your cell, he carefully peeled back your green curtain to check on you. You were a restless sleeper, Daryl heard you almost every night tossing and turning or waking up with a jolt.

Most of your features were concealed by the darkness but from what was visible, you appeared to be in a peaceful sleep. There was a veil of softness to you when you slept. A softness and calmness that never graced you during waking hours. He knew it wouldn’t last very long but he wanted to ensure that at least right now, you were okay. But he could not stand and watch all night. He felt creepy enough.

Daryl noticed the little tan book sitting on his bed as soon as he pulled back his curtain. The moonlight slightly gleamed off the sleek shiny cover. Field Guide to Animal Tracks. As Daryl flipped the book open to its title page, he felt his ears and cheeks warm up. Thankfully the darkness concealed his cheeky smile.

To Daryl. Not like you need it. - Y/n.

The group of deer that Daryl had spotted a month ago was still high on his radar. Though he still had yet to actually catch any of them.

The cabbage soup was still hot in your thermal, emitting a cloud of steam when you popped off the lid. You and Daryl sat in each other's company in your typical spot. A large tree had fallen down just at the entrance to a clearing in the woods providing a perfect resting spot. Had it been Spring or Summer you could only imagine the beauty of the green scenery. But this cold winter didn't provide much besides dry grounds, barren trees, and a frozen pond.

There was a peaceful silence that settled, as it always did. You both ate your soups and turned the pages of your books. Surprisingly, Daryl had actually learned a good bit from the book you gifted and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Ask ya something'?" You broke your concentration from your book and looked to Daryl. "Ya know why I started coming out here in the first place, right?"

You took a second to think before hesitantly nodding. "Ya never said anything." Daryl truly never understood why. He never hid it from you but still, you never asked questions. You didn't ask what the notes were on all the maps he had, never asked where you were going, or when you'd be back. But he always knew that you knew he wasn't just hunting deer, he was hunting the governor. "What would ya do...? If you ever got to him?"

Perhaps Daryl had pushed too far. Your head snapped back down to your book, though Daryl knew you weren't actually reading anymore. Your eyes were out of focus and your lips formed a frown. You had never taken the time to think about it. You just knew you wanted him to suffer.

Daryl hadn't spoken another word to you since lunch knowing he had poked at a very sensitive subject. "Wait here a second," Daryl said just as you made it back to his bike. He jogged back into the tree line leaving you sitting on the bike, awaiting his return. Daryl returned soon after, a cluster of bright yellow daffodils in hand. You gave him a puzzled glance but as he held out his hand and said, for you, you felt the urgency to cry. Your nose burning up with tingles and your eyes becoming glazed.

"Thought ya might like 'em, I saw them in your book earlier." Your hand gently took them from Daryl's and you stood still. Very still.

Daryl awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "They're uh...daffodils, right? Start bloomin' late January into March?" He had secretly been sneaking reads of your books over your shoulder. It was so fast it startled him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into you, every muscle in his body stiffened. Daryl was reluctant to hug you back but he gave into his heart and gently laid his arms around your torso. The large jackets you both wore proved to be a barrier from feeling the true touch of the other.

“Thank you.” Your words were raspy and just above a whisper. Had you not been so close, Daryl probably would’ve missed them. “Course.” His words were mumbled against your shoulder, not wanting to make a big deal. A low groan in the distance disrupted your short moment of peace, telling you it was about time to go.

The sun was beginning to set when Daryl’s bike rode up the gravel path to the prison. The smell of a brewing soup hit your nose as the two of you began to walk closer to the dining area. “Find a table, I gotcha.” Daryl’s hand lingered on your shoulder for a second longer than it typically did. Despite wearing such a thick layer of clothes, it was as if you could still feel his touch. Even after he was already at the serving table striking up a conversation with Carol.

You sat your pack down at the usual table. It was farthest to the left, farthest away from all the other tables. ���Mind if we join you?” Glenn asked, he and Maggie both holding a steaming bowl. Just as you were about to take your own seat, a loud chuckle sounded snapping you around.

“Oh come on Y/n.” Two men had been walking past on their way to fetch their own dinners. You recognized them, they were commonly on wall duty at Woodbury. The taller one motioned to the flowers that poked out from the front pocket of your jacket. “You can’t be serious.” You could feel your heart drop to the very pit of your stomach. It was as if your body was preparing you for the merciless mocking that was sure to come.

“You’re telling me the Governor’s number one soldier is walking around with flowers in her pockets?”

Stop.

You wanted to say but the words became a ball in your throat. Your eyes darted off to the side. All of a sudden, you didn’t know where to look or what to do with your hands or how to stand properly on your feet. You knew the truth behind their “jokes”.

You are not soft. You are not delicate. You are not loveable.

“The hell are ya doin?” Daryl had practically appeared out of thin air, putting himself between you and the men. You saw this as an opportunity to make an escape for your cell block.

“We were just teasing man. We were friends in Woodbury, just joking around.” They still had slimy smirks on their faces that only poked Daryl even more.

Daryl was fuming. “Didn’t look like she was fucking laughin’.” He took a step closer. “She never fucking laughs!” Before Daryl could unleash his fiery rage, Rick intervened. Rick beckoned Daryl to walk away, mumbling that everyone was looking. “Hell if I care.” Daryl snapped swinging his arm in the air. He turned on his boot and snatched up your pack that you’d left behind before going off to find you.

Daryl hadn’t found you in any of your traditional spots. He checked your cell, the library, the garden, and even the showers. He asked everyone he walked past if they’d seen you but no one had, it was as if you just vanished. And the thought of that was throwing Daryl into a deep pit.

The prison chapel had been restored and decorated by Carol to be used for the grieving prison folk. She had put as many candles as possible on a long wooden table. They had been burned and replaced so frequently that the wax dripped down the sides of the table and dropped dots on the floor. There were many different pictures of lost family members or lovers littering the table…it was quite depressing truthfully. The glow of the candles lit up the room and cast an orange glow on your sad features.

You didn’t look at Daryl as he sat down beside you.

“Didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not.”

It was an odd thing…to hear you speak so openly but Daryl wasn’t opposed. “I just…” Your voice was hoarse and low, as low as a whisper. “I find this a way to be with my brother.” Daryl had gotten so used to silence that it almost startled him to hear so many words come from your lips. You shook back the hair that fell on your face and let out a deep sigh, resting your back flat against the wooden church pew. Daryl didn’t want to speak, he didn’t want to scare your voice away, he just wanted to listen.

“I hope that doesn’t sound foolish.”

“It doesn’t.” Daryl shifted himself closer to you. “It doesn’t.” He repeated, his thigh pressed against yours. And for some reason, you felt the need to spill your guts. Perhaps being in a church would drag you to confess. “I-uhmm…I never fought against the prison. I refused to do any of it. I truthfully didn’t care if he killed me for it.” You didn’t have to explain yourself to Daryl but you felt the need to. If what you felt towards him was what you thought, you had to. “But, he just locked me in my room. Wouldn’t let me out.” Somehow, Daryl knew. He never saw you with the Governor, never saw you fighting. And when Rick told him the locked room he found you in, he pieced it together.

“Everything is true though. Everything they say about me, everything he made me do before that.”

Daryl didn’t care, he never had. Daryl cared that you didn’t want to. He cared about the fact that you were forced to. You shrugged your shoulders and looked off, “I’m as guilty as they come.”

Daryl couldn’t stand the sad look on your face, “Alright then…put yer hands behind yer back. I’ll take ya to your cell.” His joking manner caught you so off guard that a laugh escaped you. It was airy and gentle. He truly couldn’t believe it.

You laughed. And Daryl was in church.

Daryl returned to his serious demeanor to reassure you, “I care about how he hurt ya, Y/n. Don’t care what you did.”

Your eyes found Daryl’s in the dimly lit room and for a second you felt it, deep within your chest. And it ached and feared but it also loved. “Good.” You couldn’t fight the smile that squeezed your cheeks as you looked at him. Your eye contact broke allowing silence to welcome itself back. But only for a short time. “Daffodils are the birth flower of March…Jackson and I were born in March.”

After that night in the chapel, Daryl wanted nothing more than to hear your voice. It felt like his ears were filled with honey every time you spoke. It was raspy yet smooth with a hint of a southern drawl from growing up in Georgia. A thick rich honey that he wanted in a cup of hot tea and to take down his throat.

Winter was soon turning to Spring. The sky was bluer and most days the sun shined. The green of the grass and trees were returning. The garden was beginning to look even more promising come warmer weather. And just as the flowers were beginning to take bloom, so were you.

Your hard demeanor had softened, especially for Daryl. You still didn’t talk to many people besides him but you said a word or two when you wanted. Daryl took it upon himself to give Jackson a “grave” where the others were. It was just two pieces of wood, formed into a cross with his name carved in it, planted into the ground. “So that ya don’t have to go down to the chapel. Ya can be outside with him and the garden and stuff.” He had said when he showed you.

“It’s rotten work trying to find these deer.” You and Daryl strolled the wooded area, eyes on the deer tracks that embedded themselves in the dirt. Daryl shushed you and continued his concentration on the tracks. You smiled to yourself and shook your head. “I was rotten work…at the beginning.”

“Nah ya weren’t, not to me.” Daryl didn’t even hesitate, he didn’t even turn look at you. He just continued walking ahead of you, following the tracks.

The two of you settled in your usual spot. Leaning against the fallen tree at the opening to the clearing in the woods. You were right about the clearing looking more beautiful in the warmth of Spring. The trees were plump with fresh green leaves and the water in the pond sparkled under the sunlight. The grass grew tall with a mixture of white and yellow wildflowers. Your fingers ran the edge of the book page as you turned it.

Your current book was, Field Guide to Medical Plants and Herbs. There was some type of cold floating around the prison and finding the medical supplies to treat it was sparse and you’d do anything you could to help.

Daryl was interrupted from tending to his bow by your elbow jabbing his side. Without looking at him, you held up a folded piece of paper and pen. Daryl gave you an odd glare before plucking them from your fingertips. You did this often. When you couldn’t be bothered to use your voice or if you didn’t want to break concentration from a book.

There’s so many things I want to say to you.

Daryl could feel his heart begin to quicken its pace within his chest. He didn’t know what your words meant but at the same time, he did.

The folded paper got tossed back into your lap.

There’s so many things I want to say to you.

So say them.

Just then, a rustling sound sounded from within the trees from across the clearing. You gripped for your blade as Daryl grabbed for his bow. Two deers came through the trees, their white and tan tails flicking back and forth. You could’ve sworn you heard Daryl stop breathing for a second. Daryl slowly leaned up on his knees, bow in hand raising to his eye. Your eye caught it before Daryl’s did.

Another deer emerged from the trees, a fawn close behind her…and then another. “Don’t.” You brought your hand to Daryl’s bow and lowered it to point at the ground. He went to protest but when he saw the twin fawns happily nibbling at the tall grass, he stopped. It was a beautiful sight, as were you.

When your eyes broke away from the deers and to him, that’s when he decided. Daryl cupped your cheek lightly and met your lips with his. His lips were gone just as fast as they were there but his hand didn’t leave. He was still so close that your lips feathered his. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you pulled him down to you again.

What happened that day was never spoken of. But as Daryl sat in the darkness of the train cart in Terminus, he so deeply wish it had been.

But now, you were gone as was the prison. The look on your face, when the Governor stood outside the prison, was burned into Daryl’s eyelids. The way your chest heaved with anger, your hands shook with rage, and revengeful teary eyes stared off. The last he saw was you slipping out through the prison fence to go after him. Daryl yelled at you to not do it, to come with him, but you didn’t listen. You’d let yourself die if it meant you finally got your hands on him and Daryl knew it.

You could be dead. You could’ve died weeks ago fighting the Governor. You could be out there alone and starving and scared. Or you could be just fine. Daryl would never know.

When Terminus fell and he watched Rick cuddle and kiss Judith in his arms, he had a surge of hope. And when he saw Carol alive, he had more hope. As everyone said hello, it was as if he waited, waiting for you to magically appear. “Nobody has Y/n?” A deafening silence followed, quieter than you ever were. “Daryl…” Michonne stepped towards him. As he went to walk away, she stopped him placing a hand on rising his chest. “Darlyl. I’m not saying she didn’t make it. I’m just saying she didn’t look good.”

“Yeah? And you didn’t help her?” Daryl snapped shoving her hand off his chest. “Get off me.” Daryl seethed with hot tears in his icy blue eyes. It became an unspoken rule to not speak your name around him.

Your hand pressed firmly on the wound that oozed blood down your side as you limped your way into the cell block. Your right side was stained in the crimson color, all the way down to the knee of your jeans. You strained and let out a groan of pain as you took a step up the stairs that led to your cell. You didn’t need to look at yourself to know you looked awful. The walkers that completely ignored your existence when you limped by them told you enough.

Your entire torso throbbed in pain. The bruising from the kicks you took to the stomach were forming and it felt impossible to move. Your head felt like tv static and you had an undying desire to sleep. But you couldn’t. You likely had a concussion and knew that if you slept now, you wouldn’t be getting back up. Besides, you had to find Daryl. There was a hope that he’d stayed in the area and you’d find him if you just looked. You knew the woods around here well, you could find him. He was waiting for you, he had to be.

In your fuzzy state of mind, you threw whatever you touched into your pack. You changed out of ruined clothes and into clean ones. When the collar of your shirt dragged down your face, you let out a whimper of pain as it got caught on your bottom lip. There was a cut that dragged from the under your left nostril, across the left corner of your lips, and ended at the bottom of your chin.

It became a blur how you left your cell safely and ended up on the path Daryl and you walked every morning. You had to get to your spot. The spot with the fallen tree and clearing. Daryl would wait for you there. You were sure of it. When you got there and he wasn’t there, it was okay, you told yourself. You just had to wait for him.

You lowered yourself to the ground, a few whimpers of pain escaping your lips. With your back resting against the tree and arm draped over your mid section, you slipped into unconscious. You awoke to the sound of a man’s voice. “Hey, hey.” He said trying to wake you but your eyelids were too heavy to lift and you felt the weight of every muscle in your body. “Heath! Go tell Laura to bring the car around. We gotta take her back.”

“It’s a ten hour drive back Aaron, you think she’s gonna make it?”

“I don’t know.”

You awoke with a slight jolt. Your chest heaved with heavy breathes as your eyes dilated to the bright and unfamiliar room. Your body ached but the softness of the mattress you laid on seemed to comfort it. “Pete, go get Deanna.” Aaron instructed, sitting up in his seat next to your bedside. Your eyes wandered the room, trying to figure out where you were. “Hey. I’m Aaron. You’re in the infirmary in a community called Alexandria.” You looked to the man that sat to your right. He had a very kind face and gentle eyes. His clothes were perfectly clean and his curly brown hair was freshly washed and fluffy.

“Myself and others were on a trip along the East Coast to look for survivors to bring here.” Aaron clarified further, “We found you and brought you back, you were in really bad shape…you still…you still kind of are.”

Aaron could see the confusion and panic drawn on your face. Your head snapped to the door when you heard footsteps on the polished wood floors. “Hi” Deanna gently said approaching your bedside. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up. What’s your name?”

Your mouth hung open for a second, your mind still wasn’t clear, and you had no clear memory of the last three days. “Y/n” You finally replied, voice hoarse and raspy. Deanna smiled at you, “Where am I?” You asked finally finding your voice. Deanna and Aaron exchanged a glance, “You’re in a safe community called Alexandria in Virginia.”

Virginia?

You could feel your world begin to tumble, a thousand thoughts racing your mind. You were so far away from Georgia. You were away from home. Away from Daryl. “No.” You attempted to pull yourself out of the bed but were stopped by Aaron softly holding you back. “No, no, no.” You repeated and dropped your head down into your hands as panicked sobs racked your chest. “Pete! Go get her something to calm down.”

You didn’t want pills to help calm down. You wanted to go home. You wanted to be with him. You sat yourself up in the bed despite the pain in your torso telling you not to. “Daryl?” You asked Deanna. She could see the desperation in your teary eyes, “I’m sorry we only found you.”

Aaron sat up from the dirt floor of the barn after Rick had knocked him unconscious. Rick’s group continuously went back and forth with one another debating their plan. Once they finally decided and everyone was being assigned a position, Rick turned to Daryl. “Daryl, go keep an eye-“

“Wait, Daryl?” Aaron interrupted Rick’s order from his spot on the floor. He felt everyone’s eyes on him in an instant. “Daryl Dixon, right? Y-you knew an Y/n?” Daryl stomped over to Aaron and gripped him by the front of his shirt, pulling him close. “How the hell ya know Y/n?” Daryl’s tone was threatening yet shaky. Aaron knew if he didn’t start talking he’d end up back on the floor.

“She’s in Alexandria, she lives with me, she’s safe! A-a little over a month ago, myself and others were on a trip along the East Coast looking for survivors. We found her in the woods down in Georgia.” Aaron took a pause, “She was in really bad shape, we brought her back and she’s been there ever since.”

“She talks about you all the time.” Daryl’s hand shook around the fabric of Aaron’s shirt, his eyes studied his face trying to find any indicator that he was lying. ”I don’t fuckin’ believe ya.” The thought of you being alive and safe comforted Daryl but he wouldn’t so easily believe a stranger. “I’m not lying, I swear.” Aaron frantically said, “She-she gave me something to give to you. It’s in the front pocket of my bag.”

Daryl shoved Aaron back to the ground with a thud. Rick tossed Aaron’s bag to Daryl, practically tearing off the zipper getting into it. Daryl’s unsteady hands pulled out the familiar small tan book. As he flipped open to the title page, he read the words you’d written to another that day.

There’s so many things I want to say to you.

So say them.

As Daryl read the new words you’d written, he could feel the lump forming in his throat.

It was easier to die than to say them.

“I probably should’ve led with that, huh?” Aaron joked attempting to lighten the mood. Rick’s gruff voice responded, “Shut up.”

The sun shined in Alexandria despite the rainstorm that came through the night before. You found yourself where you always were, in the gardens. The heavy rain had bent many of the plants out of shape and the raised wooden garden beds were flooded. The mixture of water and grass squelched under your boots as you examined the damage. With a deep sigh, you pulled out a box of cigarettes from your back pocket along with a zippo lighter. It wasn’t a habit you proudly picked back up. But after the fall of the prison and Daryl no longer being there to help you, it found its way back.

You tilted your head up to the sky and blew the smoke from your lips. You closed your eyes and let the sunlight cast its rays onto your face. And as you did, you tried to imagine that you were standing in the garden of the prison again. That Daryl stood only a few feet away, fighting with a vegetable, and cursing as he did.

“Hey Y/n.”

Spencer disrupted your daydream, standing a few feet away and calling out your name. “Sorry,” He jokingly held up his hands in surrender, “Aaron’s back, he asked for you at the gate.” Aaron had returned to Alexandria several times over the past month with new faces. Every time you’d go to the gate and wait for him to return, your heart full of hope. But every time the same disappointment rained down on you. It was never who you wanted, it was never him. So, when Aaron told you about a group he’d been tracking and trying to bring back, you didn’t care to listen. You saved my ass and now you think you can save everyone? You said to him a few nights ago.

“Going.” You replied bluntly. You wouldn’t allow your hopes to grow just to be smashed into pieces. Your eyes were on the ground as you walked to the front gate, cigarette dangling from your lips, and hair falling in your face. Spencer talked his jaw off beside you, every word he spoke going in one ear and out the other. But the sound of a familiar whistle vibrating against your eardrums perked your head up in an instant.

You tossed your cigarette from your mouth and found your way back to him. Daryl met you halfway, his arms desperately pulling you in close. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, feeling his shaky breaths on the skin of your own. Your hair was soft and smelled of shampoo. Daryl grasped the fabric of your shirt that smelled ever so slightly of cigarettes.

When Daryl pulled away to look at you, he finally saw the fresh scar drawn on your lips. He wanted to scold you. To tell you how foolish you'd been to go after the Governor alone. "Ya got him?" Was all he could bring himself to ask. You avoided answering but you nodded, "Come on, I wanna go see everyone else."

Despite the group still not fully trusting Alexandria, they felt more at ease knowing you’d been kept safe here. After helping Rick settle the group into the Alexandrian homes, you sat on the front porch with Daryl. Daryl hadn’t let you out of his sight for a second. Everything you did and every where you went, he was there. Besides when Carol shoved him away to shower.

The two of you passed back and forth a lit cigarette, comfortable in the silence of the night air. “Tara asked me about the Governor.” Your words were quiet just incase anyone were listening. Daryl looked to you. “Yeah?” With a deep sigh, you blew the smoke from your mouth. “Yeah…asked what he did to me.”

Daryl could see the way the thought of it dragged your lips into that familiar frown. “Told her I didn’t wanna make her guilty conscious even worse.” You said it as if it was meant to be a joke but Daryl saw through it. “It’s gettin late.” Daryl begin to break you from those thoughts. He was right. The sun had set about an hour ago and everyone was setting up their beds for the night.

“Ya ah….Ya gonna go home?” Daryl didn’t want you to leave, he never wanted to be without you again. “I am home.” There was no hesitation in your reply. Daryl’s eyes snapped to yours in an instant. “Ain’t what I meant.” You stood from your spot and reached a hand out to him, “Come with me.” Daryl glanced between your hand and your eyes. The night was dark and the porch light dim but you could see the rosy color blotch at his cheeks. You lightly kicked his foot with your own, “Just wanna show you where I’ve been staying.”

Your room was in the fully furnished basement of Aaron and Eric’s home. Aaron had welcomed you in, knowing you couldn’t be on your own in your condition. The stairs were on the farthest right wall of the basement, leading you down into a lounge like area with tan carpet and white walls. An L shaped leather couch sat in front of a, now useless, flat screen TV. Past the couch, on the back wall, stood two white doors. Daryl presumed behind one of them laid your bedroom.

You walked him over to the left door and pushed it open. There was nothing special about your room. Simply a bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a bookshelf in the corner. You sat at the foot of your bed, Daryl took it as a sign to do the same. “I’m sorry Daryl.” Your voice was just above a whisper, avoiding his eyes when you spoke. “I should’ve looked harder for him…I shouldn’t of gotten so distracted.” Your head hung low in shame, “I should’ve talked about that day..in the woods.” The dimly lit room hid the tears that fell from your eyes. “I should’ve said everything I wanted to say.”

“We should’ve.” Daryl corrected you, stopping all your blabbering. Your watery eyes met his with a look of confusion. “Everythin’ ya said. I was there too. S’not all your fault Y/n.” The impact of Daryl’s words made you go quiet. “Ain’t yer fault what he did to you either.”

“I love you.”

Daryl had never shut his mouth so fast in his life. You weren’t sure where your outburst of confidence came from but you didn’t regret it. You accepted it every waking day and every sleepless night you were apart from him. “Nah, ya don’t.” Daryl rejects your confession at the grace of his own insecurity. Your hands raise themselves to his face, a stern look gracing your features. “I have since the prison…”

Your thumb grazes his cheek gently as you pause. “Since…that day in the woods when all you could do was apologize after you’d kissed me…”

Daryl didn’t know what to do. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest and the warmth from your hand on his cheek. You gently lean in before connecting your lips with his. When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his own. If you had just ruined everything Daryl and you had, you at least wanted to bask in his presence one last time. “I love ya too.” Daryl leaned back in, capturing your lips in his.

The night you’d spent together was full of gentle touches and whispers. The only time silence happened was the sleep bestowed upon you afterwards. Your bedroom was dimly lit come morning time. The only windows in your room were up towards the ceiling, just above ground level. For the first time since Jackson died, you woke up peacefully. No panic attack awaiting you, no need to run away and fill your lungs with smoke. Feelings of the night before returned to your mind, memories in vivid detail. Daryl awoke when he felt the movement of the sheet from beside him.

With your back turned to him, Daryl took it upon himself to graze the skin of your bare back with his fingertips. He caught a glance at the deep scarring along your side. The gash had turned into a raised, dark pink, bruised color on your skin. Daryl could see shadow of lines covering its length from the stitches that had held it together.

As his fingertips traveled down, they stopped on another scar. The left side of your lower back was imbedded with the letter “G”. The scarring of the initial raised your skin, though it wasn’t pink and bruised like the other. It had healed to a shade paler than your skin tone. Daryl simply couldn’t believe it. Fucking bastard.

“Branding iron.” You begin, voice slightly rasp from sleep. “Never did it to anyone else…just me.” Daryl’s hand fell from your back, “Come here.” You reluctantly did so, turning to face him. His hand found the side of your face that didn’t rest on the plush pillow. His facial expression’s became serious but his eyes remained gentle. “Ain’t gonna let no one treat you like that ever again. Ya feel like someone breathes around ya the wrong way, you tell me alright?” You playfully rolled your eyes, a cheeky smile forming but you still replied “Alright.”

Daryl thumb drug along your bottom lip, stopping at the pale scar. “Promise ya won’t ever stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“…Bein’ happy.”

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A/n: I've proof read this over and over so I hope everyone is able to enjoy it and theres no mistakes! If anyone would like to submit a request, feel free too. If it's a project i'd be willing to take on, I will try my best to get to it.