The first time the Grendel King gifted you a trophy, you thought absolutely nothing of it.
At that point, you had already spent several years in his clan, long enough to earn your freedom, long enough to become something far more than another human survivor dragged unwillingly into Yautja territory.
You had been there long enough to build a reputation for yourself as a capable hunter whose skill had been earned through skill rather than privilege.
The clan accepted you.
It wasn't easy, even with your earned respect, but eventually, they all accepted you.
You had fought beside them, trained beside them, bled beside them, even if your blood is a different colour.
Over time, their respect had become something genuine rather than merely tolerated.
Some still viewed you as unusual, a human occupying a place no human was ever meant to stand, yet none questioned your right to remain among them.
Least of all the King.
In hindsight, perhaps that should have been your first clue.
The trophy itself had been magnificent.
You still remembered the day he presented it to you.
The hunters had only recently returned from a difficult journey beyond the northern territories, a journey that had apparently ended with the death of a creature so dangerous that even veteran warriors spoke of it with admiration. When the King entered the gathering hall carrying the enormous skull in one hand, every eye followed his movements as he crossed the room with the confidence only he possessed.
Then, to your complete surprise, he stopped directly in front of you.
Without a word, he lowered the skull onto the table.
You stared.
The entire hall stared.
The King stared.
There was a moment of silence before you finally leaned forward to examine the trophy more closely.
“By all the stars. This thing is incredible.”
The creature’s teeth alone were nearly the length of your forearm, while deep scars carved across the bone hinted at the ferocity of the battle that had claimed its life.
Your excitement grew with every second.
“How large was it?”
The King straightened slightly.
“Large.”
“Obviously.”
You reached out carefully, tracing one of the massive fangs.
“Where did you find it?”
“The northern ice valleys.”
“How many hunters went after it?”
“Twenty.”
Your eyes widened further.
“And only one skull came back?”
A low rumble sounded from his chest. You would later learn that it was meant to be a pleased sound.
At the time, you assumed he was simply proud of the hunt itself.
“Thank you. This is one of the finest trophies I’ve ever seen.”
The King remained perfectly still.
You smiled.
Then, entirely unaware that you had just destroyed months of preparation, you gathered the skull and carried it back to your quarters.
The King watched you leave.
Across the hall, several older hunters exchanged knowing looks.
One of them quietly left before the King could decide to take his frustration out on somebody unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Unfortunately for the King, things only became worse from there.
Several weeks later, another gift was presented.
This time, it was a collection of claws taken from a vulture capable of tearing apart heavily armoured prey.
You loved them.
You mounted them on the wall.
You thanked him enthusiastically.
Nothing changed.
Months passed.
The gifts kept on coming.
A polished spine from a desert beast.
Rare hides from distant worlds.
An enormous set of horns that barely fit through your doorway.
Every single time, your reaction remained exactly the same.
You were delighted.
You were grateful.
You were completely oblivious.
Meanwhile, the King’s confusion grew into genuine frustration.
By Yautja standards, his intentions could not have been more obvious.
He was presenting trophies.
Valuable trophies.
Personal trophies.
Trophies acquired during hunts which were important enough to become part of clan history.
The message should have been unmistakable.
Instead, his chosen human only kept thanking him.
At one point, he personally dedicated a successful hunt in your honour.
You thanked him for that as well. By the end of the year, nearly the entire clan knew what was happening.
More importantly, nearly the entire clan found it hilarious.
The King did not.
Eventually, after presenting what should have been an absolutely undeniable display of courtship and receiving yet another cheerful expression of gratitude in return, he reached a decision that wounded his pride more deeply than any weapon ever had.
The problem was not him.
The problem was humans.
Human courtship made no sense.
Determined to solve the mystery, he began gathering information from every source available to him, questioning traders, translators, scholars, and elderly humans who had spent decades living among Yautja clans.
The answers only made things worse.
Some claimed humans preferred flowers.
Others insisted on jewellery.
One particularly confusing individual spent nearly an hour explaining poetry.
Poetry.
The King genuinely considered throwing him out of an airlock.
Then, finally, one elderly woman offered information that actually seemed useful.
“Historically?” she said thoughtfully. “Warriors sometimes exchanged weapons. A fine sword was a very meaningful gift.”
A weapon.
Something practical.
Something valuable.
Something worthy.
For the first time in months, he finally felt hopeful.
And thus began the creation of the sword.
Not just any sword.
Your sword.
The finest weapon he had ever commissioned.
Every detail was chosen specifically for you, from the balance of the blade to the shape of the grip, while master craftsmen spent months refining the design until it matched your fighting style perfectly. Alongside the weapon came armour crafted with equal care, a set designed not merely for battle but for status, its markings and decorations making one fact abundantly clear.
Whoever wore it stood beside the King himself.
By the time the presentation day arrived, the entire clan already knew what was happening.
The only person who remained unaware was you.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
A/N: I wanted to leave this open ended, but if many people are interested, I can make a part 2!
Outside the ship, the storm raged with enough force to make the metal walls groan underneath the pressure of the wind.
Frost started to become visible on the exposed pipes and vents throughout the lower levels of the vessel, and despite every fur blanket and thermal layer wrapped around your body, the cold still managed to seep deep into your bones until even your hands ached from trying to preserve what little warmth was still there.
Curled tightly inside the nest built into the corner of the room, you pulled another thick pelt over yourself and tried to stop shivering, the weak red glow from the heating unit nearby barely helped the frozen air filling the room.
Another violent blow shook the ship hard enough to rattle the walls.
Then the chamber doors opened.
Heavy footsteps echoed and before you even looked up, you already knew exactly who had returned. Your mate had to lower herself slightly to fit through the doorway, her tall frame made even larger by the layers of armour covering her body and the thick furs draped across one shoulder. She stepped fully into the room, one massive hand carrying her biomask while her golden eyes went to you.
The low clicking sound that left her throat the moment she saw you shaking under the blankets let you know that she was just as hurt by your sight as you were shivering.
You had learned enough of her sounds and body language by now.
“I’m fine,” you insisted, although your teeth nearly chattered through the words. Your mate answered with another low rumble that vibrated deep insdie her chest.
She walked over to you, her body radiating so much natural heat that you felt the difference before she even reached you.
The cold that had wrapped around your body for hours seemed to retreat in her presence.
Without speaking, she crouched beside the nest and reached for you.
The sheer size difference between you remained almost absurd no matter how much time passed between you, and even now it still startled you how easily she could lift your entire body against her chest as though you weighed nothing at all.
“Hey,” you protested softly as she gathered you into her arms, “I was comfortable.”
A deep growl rolled through her chest, not angry, but filled with the familiar irritation she always displayed whenever you ignored your own limits.
The sound which said, stubborn little thing.
Your mate settled against the wall with you held securely in her lap before dragging every fur and blanket in the nest across both of your bodies, effectively trapping you against her chest while her arms wrapped completely around you.
The warmth hit instantly.
It spread through your freezing body, you let out a sighbefore you could stop it.
At the sound, your mate released a series of soft clicking noises.
“You’re smug,” you mumbled tiredly as one large hand began moving slowly along your back, the sharp edges of her claws barely catching against your clothes.
The contradiction had never ceased to fascinate you.
Outside these walls, she was feared even among her own kind, a massive huntress decorated in trophies and scars earned through battles, yet every ounce of that terrifying strength softened whenever she touched you, as though you were something precious enough to handle with care.
The storm outside worsened as snow slammed against the hull in forceful waves, but wrapped in her embrace, the noise slowly began fading into the background.
Your mate lowered her head until her mandibles brushed lightly against your hair in a gesture that had once terrified you when you first came to understand her affection, though now it filled your chest with a strange warmth entirely separate from the heat of her body.
“You actually enjoy this weather, don’t you?” you asked quietly.
A low trill answered you almost immediately.
Of course, she did.
The mighty hunter species built for impossible worlds and brutal climates remained perfectly comfortable while an entire moon froze under a raging blizzard.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
Another pleased clicking sound escaped her. The laugh that slipped from you afterwards seemed to affect her instantly because the vibrations under your cheek changed into something deeper and softer, a low, deep purring came from her chest and into your body where you rested against her. Your eyes widened slightly.
“You’re doing it again,” you whispered.
The enormous Yautja tilted her head with an almost innocent look, but the continued purring vibrating through her body made any denial impossible.
“You are absolutely purring.”
She made no attempt to stop.
Smiling, you moved closer until your cheek was fully against her.
The sound, combined with the deep vibrations of her purring and the overwhelming warmth surrounding you, made you drowsy.
One hand settled against the back of your head, claws running through your hair while keeping you tucked against her.
Possessive.
Protective.
Completely devoted.
Your mate noticed the faint shiver that still moved through your body despite the blankets, and before you could react, she removed one heavy gauntlet before sliding her bare hand carefully beneath your clothing until her burning palm rested directly against your back.
The heat nearly stole the breath from your lungs.
Yautja body temperature had always bordered on absurd compared to humans, and in moments like this it felt less like being touched by another living creature and more like pressing yourself against living fire.
A pleased rumble escaped her as your entire body relaxed against the warmth.
“That’s cheating,” you murmured sleepily.
Her mandibles twitched with amusement before she moved lower into the nest and pulled you more completely across her chest until your head rested beneath her chin while one arm remained securely wrapped around your waist. The other continued stroking slowly through your hair in movements so strangely tender that it still managed to catch you off guard sometimes.
At first, when she had taken you aboard her ship, you believed yourself nothing more than a curiosity to her, some strange little creature she found interesting enough to keep alive after discovering how stubbornly you survived conditions that should have killed you.
Then she became protective.
Then possessive.
And somewhere along the way, without either of you truly noticing when it happened, the mighty huntress who terrified entire clans had become unable to sleep properly unless you were curled safely against her chest.
You smiled faintly at the thought.
“You’d kill anyone who tried taking me away from you, wouldn’t you?”
A low, dangerous growl vibrated through her body, deep enough that you felt it more than heard it.
There was not even the slightest hesitation.
Your mate lowered her forehead carefully against yours while her golden eyes remained fixed entirely on your face, their harsh intensity softened. One claw lifted slowly beneath your chin, forcing you to hold her gaze before she released the quiet clicking sound that you had eventually come to understand as the closest thing her species had to a spoken declaration.
Mate.
Every single time she made that sound, your chest tightened.
You lifted your hand slowly to rest against the side of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin.
“I know,” you whispered softly with a smile.
Wrapped tightly within the arms of the deadliest creature you had ever known, surrounded by warmth, heavy furs, and the overwhelming affection of the female Yautja who had claimed you as hers, you could not remember ever feeling safer.
A/N: Happy Pride month everyone! 🏳️🌈 To celebrate, I brought the above Female Yautja x Female Reader. I hope you enjoyed!
Summary: A visiting Yautja clan quickly learns the consequences of disrespecting King’s pregnant human mate.
The arrival of another clan always changed the atmosphere of the stronghold long before their ships ever appeared, because among the Yautja, visits between clans were never simple matters of diplomacy or celebration, instead, they were carefully balanced displays of strength, hierarchy, and control where every gesture, every word, and every movement carried meaning under the surface.
You could feel the change everywhere around you.
The guards stationed throughout the halls stood straighter than usual, their armour ceremonial rather than practical. At the same time, servants and lower-ranked warriors moved with noticeably greater urgency through the towering stone corridors. They were preparing feasting halls, organising trophies for display, and ensuring that every inch of the stronghold reflected the power of the King who ruled it.
And because you carried his child, because his heir now grew safely underneath your heart, the tension surrounding the visit seemed even sharper than before.
You sat near the great fire within the upper chamber, one hand resting against the curve of your stomach while the flames cast warm light across the stone walls, and despite the comfort of the room, you could still sense the unease spreading throughout the fortress like an approaching storm.
The child had been moving since morning, restless and strong, moving under your skin often enough that you wondered if perhaps he could somehow feel your mate’s tension as clearly as you could.
The doors to your chamber opened heavily.
Your mate entered, and even after everything the two of you had shared together, the sight of him still carried the same overwhelming presence that had once frightened entire villages, because there was simply no way to ignore a creature built so powerfully, wrapped in armour and trophies, carrying himself with the kind of confidence only a true ruler could possess.
Yet despite his terrifying appearance, his attention found only you.
Always you.
His eyes swept across the room first, assessing in the instinctive way of a hunter, ensuring no danger had entered his territory before finally settling where you sat beside the fire.
“There you are,” you murmured, smiling as he approached.
He crossed the chamber in slow steps until he stood directly in front of you, one large hand moved carefully against the swell of your stomach with a surprising gentleness that never failed to make you smile.
The child shifted almost immediately under his touch. A pleased rumble sounded from deep within his chest at the reaction.
“They approach,” he said after a moment, his voice low and steady.
“The western clan?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
You knew of them already, at least through stories and reputation, because the western clan was among the oldest surviving bloodlines still aligned with your mate’s territory, made up of hunters known for their efficiency and deep devotion to honour, though they were also infamous for their pride and unwillingness to tolerate weakness in any form.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist.
“You’ve been tense all day.”
“They are guests,” he answered carefully.
You smiled faintly because that was not truly the issue.
“And?”
His mandibles moved slightly before his eyes dropped briefly toward your stomach once more.
“You carry my heir.”
There it was.
The real concern.
Since your pregnancy became visible, your mate’s protective instincts had intensified to almost absurd levels, to the point where nothing entered your chambers without inspection, no warrior approached you without permission, and even the healers who examined you regularly found themselves watched with heavy scrutiny.
At first, you had found it excessive.
Now, strangely enough, you found it comforting.
“You know they are not going to challenge me,” you said softly, tilting your head up toward him.
“They would not survive it.”
The confidence in his answer made you laughh.
“You are very intense.”
“I am correct.”
“You usually are.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him enough that some of the tension left his posture, and then he leaned down and pressed his forehead briefly against yours in one of the rare moments of intimacy he allowed himself when no one was watching.
“You will remain beside me during the gathering,” he told you.
“I assumed as much.”
“You will not leave my sight.”
“You say that as though I wander endlessly when you are not looking.”
“You would if allowed.”
That made you laugh properly, and for a short moment, you watched the severity in his expression soften at the sound.
---
The visiting clan arrived before nightfall, their ships descending while warriors lined the entrance hall in ceremonial formation, creating a display impressive enough that even you found yourself pausing to admire the sheer scale of it all. Even though you have seen it before. They never fail to amaze you.
When the western clan finally entered the great hall, they did so with the confidence of warriors who feared nothing, their leader walking first, his huge frame decorated with sea-creature bones, polished skull fragments, and old scars that spoke of countless victories earned across many worlds.
Your mate remained seated beside you on the elevated stone platform overlooking the hall below, his posture relaxed enough to appear respectful while still carrying the unmistakable dominance of a King within his own territory, and as expected, his hand rarely strayed far from where it rested protectively near you.
The Western leader noticed you immediately.
Of course, he did.
A human seated beside a King was impossible to ignore.
Still, unlike lesser warriors, he possessed enough wisdom not to allow surprise to turn into disrespect, and after studying you for a moment, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before addressing your mate directly.
“Your Queen is honoured greatly within your halls,” he observed.
“She is, as she should be,” your mate answered immediately before you even had the chance to speak.
“Yes,” he replied. “Of course.”
For a while, the gathering remained peaceful as stories of hunts echoed throughout the halls, trophies were examined and admired, and warriors traded tales of victories earned through blood and skill, while servants carried endless platters of food between the enormous stone tables.
You almost began to relax.
Almost.
Then two younger warriors ruined everything.
You noticed them long before your mate did, mostly because they lacked the discipline to hide their interest properly, their eyes staying on you too long while whispering between themselves with faces carrying familiar arrogance young hunters often mistook for confidence.
One finally spoke while passing near the elevated platform.
“A human carrying royal blood,” he remarked mockingly. “The King lowers himself.”
The entire hall fell silent instantly.
You felt the change in the atmosphere. It was like a blade pressing against exposed skin.
Your mate did not move immediately, which somehow felt more dangerous than if he had exploded into violence, because slow anger from him was always far worse than impulsive rage.
Very slowly, he turned his head toward the two warriors. The sheer weight of his attention caused several nearby hunters to lower their eyes.
“You speak boldly,” your mate said quietly.
The second warrior, foolish beyond reason, actually laughed.
“She is prey pretending to be queen.”
Your mate rose to his feet.
Every sound inside the great hall disappeared entirely.
You remained seated despite the quickening pulse in your chest while your mate descended the platform with calm steps, not rushing, not roaring, not losing control even for a moment, because this was not mindless fury.
This was judgement.
The western clan leader exhaled slowly through his mandibles, disappointment evident in the sound.
“The young die foolishly,” he muttered.
Only then did the two warriors seem to understand the magnitude of their mistake.
Far too late.
Your mate stopped directly in front of them, towering over both.
“You insult my mate,” he said.
Neither warrior answered.
“You insult my unborn child.”
Still silence, then his voice lowered further.
“You insult me.”
The first warrior attacked in panic. It was the worst decision he could have made.
Your mate caught the strike effortlessly before twisting hard enough to shatter the warrior’s arm completely, and the sound of bone breaking echoed throughout the silent hall only moments before his wrist blades drove cleanly through the warrior’s throat.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
The body collapsed instantly.
The second warrior barely had enough time to draw his weapon before your mate turned towards him, and though the younger hunter fought harder than the first, it changed absolutely nothing about the outcome.
You watched every moment
And strangely, rather than fear, all you felt was pride.
Because your mate did not fight wildly.
He fought with purpose.
With absolute certainty.
The final blow split the second warrior open across the chest, sending his lifeless body crashing heavily onto the blood-covered stone beside his companion.
Silence followed.
Your mate stood over the bodies, breathing slowly while neon blood dripped from his blades onto the floor. Then the western clan leader rose calmly from his seat.
“Their deaths are justified,” he declared for the entire hall to hear. “They disrespected the Queen.”
Agreement rumbled immediately throughout the gathered warriors.
None challenged it
None dared.
Only then did your mate finally turn back to you, and the moment his eyes found you again, the fury visibly lessened, as he returned immediately to your side, one large hand settling protectively against your stomach as though reassuring himself that both you and the child remained unharmed.
You looked up at him with a faint smile.
“That was excessive,” you murmured teasingly.
“They were warned.”
“You enjoyed that.”
“They insulted you.”
“Yes,” you said softly. “They did.”
---
By the following evening, the skulls of the two fallen warriors decorated your home.
Cleaned and mounted high along the stone walls overlooking the entrance, they served both as trophies and as warnings to anyone foolish enough to forget what happened to those who disrespected the Queen of the stronghold.
Deep within your chambers, the fire crackled warmly as you rested comfortably beside your mate, wrapped in heavy furs.
For the first time since the western clan’s arrival, he finally seemed fully at ease.
You leaned against his side while one of his large hands rested over your stomach, feeling the strong movements of the child moving underneath your skin every so often, and when the baby kicked particularly hard, your mate immediately looked down with interest.
Another movement followed beneath his palm.
A deep, pleased rumble echoed from his chest.
“He grows stronger already,” he murmured.
“He is going to be enormous,” you sighed dramatically.
“As he should be.”
Eventually, your eyes moved toward the mounted skulls decorating the walls.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “most husbands bring flowers.”
Your mate looked toward the trophies before looking back at you.
“They brought disrespect.”
“And you brought home their heads.”
“They are decorative.”
The seriousness in his voice made you laugh hard enough that your stomach tightened slightly, immediately causing his attention to snap back toward you.
“You are in pain?”
“No,” you managed between soft laughter. “I am fine.”
He continued watching you carefully for another moment before finally relaxing once more, after which he leaned down and rested his forehead gently against yours.
“My Queen,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, smiling, while his hand remained protectively over both you and your unborn child,
You were surrounded by warmth, safety, and the guarantee that no force in the universe would ever be allowed to harm either of you while your King was alive.
Summary: Daryl Dixon never imagined marriage would mean anything to him after the world ended. Then he found you.
The ring sat in Daryl’s pocket for six straight days.
Six.
Every morning he told himself he was being stupid. Every night he touched the small velvet box hidden inside his jacket and thought about you anyway.
It had happened during a supply run outside Alexandria. It was just like any other day. Just another abandoned house slowly being swallowed by time and nature. Broken windows, collapsed furniture, dust coating every surface.
Daryl had only entered because Aaron wanted canned food from the kitchen cupboards.
Instead, Daryl found the ring upstairs. A tiny velvet box hidden inside a bedside table drawer.
He almost ignored it completely, but then he opened it.
And there it was.
A simple ring with a small diamond that still caught the afternoon sunlight somehow despite years of dust and ruin. Daryl stared at it for a long moment. The old world felt strange sometimes. He found ghosts everywhere.
People who once loved each other enough to promise forever. Most days Daryl thought forever was a dangerous thing to believe in.
Then he thought about you.
About your sleepy smile every morning when he returned from runs. About the way you automatically reached for him. About sitting on the porch together after dark while you rested your head on his shoulder, fingers interwined. About how Alexandria finally felt like home because you were there. And suddenly the thought appeared so naturally it nearly stole the air from him.
Marry her.
Daryl immediately shut the box again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself.
Yet somehow the ring still ended up in his pocket. The problem was that once the idea existed in his mind, it refused to leave him alone.
By the second day, Carol noticed something was going on with him. Mostly because Daryl kept absentmindedly checking his pocket every five minutes.
“You’re acting weird,” Carol Peletier observed casually while chopping vegetables.
“Ain’t.”
“You nearly walked into a wall earlier.”
Daryl grunted and Carol narrowed her eyes.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re going to ask her to marry you.”
He looked genuinely horrified.
“Keep your damn voice down!”
Carol gasped dramatically.
“You are!”
“Shut up.”
“You found a ring, didn’t you?”
Daryl stared at her silently, Carol placed a hand over her heart.
“This is the best day of my life.”
“It ain’t even like that.”
“You have carried around that expression for three days straight, Daryl. You look like a frightened raccoon.”
“A what?” He scowled deeply.
“You heard me.”
Carol spent the next several days being completely unbearable. Every time you walked into a room she smirked at Daryl like she knew a secret.
Which she did.
Daryl considered throwing himself off Alexandria’s walls at least twice.
Meanwhile you remained blissfully unaware, mostly because Daryl still acted normal around you.
Well.
Mostly normal.
You noticed the increased staring and the fact he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something before changing his mind. One evening while sitting together on the porch outside your house, you finally nudged his shoulder lightly.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothin’.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“Said I’m fine.”
You studied him carefully, he looked nervous, which almost never happened unless something truly mattered to him. You reached over and took his hand gently.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Daryl’s chest tightened painfully, that was exactly the problem, because he loved you so much it genuinely frightened him sometimes.
That night he barely slept, and by morning he had decided two things.
First, he was absolutely going to ask you.
Second, he might actually die from the anxiety beforehand.
The opportunity arrived unexpectedly later that afternoon, most of Alexandria gathered near the centre of the street helping repair fencing after a recent storm.
You stood nearby sorting tools while laughing at something Glenn said.
And Daryl suddenly thought, If I don’t ask now, I never will.
His heart hammered violently.
“Hey,” he muttered.
You looked over immediately, smiling the second you saw him.
There it is, Daryl thought helplessly.
That damn smile.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
He absolutely was not. Daryl rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms against his trousers before glancing around.
Too many people.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
“Can ya come with me a sec?”
You tilted your head curiously but followed him without question, Daryl led you behind one of the quieter houses near the edge of Alexandria where the noise from the others faded into the background.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, worried, you have never seen Daryl like this before. Daryl turned towards you. Then immediately forgot every single sentence he had prepared.
Brilliant.
“Daryl?”
He swallowed hard, his fingers fumbled nervously inside his jacket pocket before pulling out the small velvet box. Your eyes widened instantly.
“Oh.”
Daryl stared firmly at the ground, he was too afraid to look at you in the eyes.
“Found it on a run.”
You looked down at the ring before looking back at him, he was still staring at the ground.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
Daryl’s heart pounded so hard he genuinely thought he might throw up, finally he forced himself to continue but he still couldn’t look at you.
“Been carryin’ it around.”
“Why?”
Daryl finally looked up at you then, his blue eyes were full of something so open and vulnerable it made your chest ache.
“Cause I kept thinkin’ about you.”
Daryl rubbed a hand nervously over the back of his neck.
“Ain’t got some big speech planned or nothin’,” he admitted roughly. “Don’t really know how ta do this right.”
“You’re doing fine,” you whispered, he laughed a little under his breath.
“Nah. Prob’ly not.” Then his expression turned serious again. “But I know I wanna wake up next ta you every day I got left.”
Tears immediately filled your eyes Daryl stepped closer.
“Know the world’s all messed up now. Maybe rings don’t mean much anymore.”
“They do,” you whispered shakily as his thumb brushed nervously against the edge of the box.
“You make this place feel good.” His voice cracked slightly. “Make me feel good.”
Your heart completely melted.
“And I…” He exhaled shakily. “Hell.”
“Take your time.” You smiled, you could only imagine how difficult this was for him. He was never a man of many words. Daryl looked at you with so much love it nearly hurt.
“Will you be my wife?”
Silence.
Daryl’s entire body tensed immediately. Then you started crying, his eyes widened in panic.
“Oh God. Was that bad?”
“No!” You laughed through your tears instantly.
“You cryin’ seemed bad!”
You grabbed his jacket quickly before he could spiral further.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes!”
Relief hit his face so hard it almost looked painful, you were sure a huge weight fell off his shoulders just then.
“Oh thank Christ.”
You burst into laughter while he shakily slid the ring onto your finger. It fit surprisingly well.
“There,” Daryl muttered softly, staring down at your hand like he could not believe it. “Mine.”
Your entire chest warmed.
“Your wife,” you corrected gently.
Daryl looked absolutely wrecked emotionally by those words.
Then he kissed you, with overwhelmingly tenderness.
One hand cradled your face while the other settled firmly against your waist like he needed to keep you close.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling helplessly. Unfortunately, neither of you realised Carol had followed him.
“Oh my God!”
You jumped, Daryl groaned. Carol stood nearby looking ready to explode with excitement.
“I knew it! I knew it!”
“You were spying on us?!” Daryl snapped.
“Yes,” Carol replied easily. “And I regret nothing, that was so cute.”
Then she spotted the ring on your hand and immediately screamed loud enough to alert half of Alexandria. Within seconds, people started appearing around the corner.
Glenn looked delighted, Maggie gasped happily, Rick blinked once before grinning.
The entire street erupted into celebration, yet through all the noise, Daryl only looked at you. Still staring at the ring on your finger like he could barely believe this was real.
“You happy?” you whispered, Daryl looked back up immediately, then he cupped your face gently.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Got everythin’ I ever wanted.”
Summary: Daryl Dixon never expected to find comfort in Alexandria, let alone fall for someone who treated him with kindness from the very beginning.
The first time you saw Daryl, he looked ready to disappear. While the others stood inside Alexandria’s gates looking exhausted and wary, Daryl lingered slightly behind them all, crossbow hanging low at his side, shoulders tense. His eyes moved constantly, watching the walls, the houses, the people.
Like he expected it all to vanish or worse, turn on him.
You remembered Deanna talking about the new arrivals, how hardened they were, how dangerous the world outside had made them. Most of Alexandria whispered about Rick and the others with uncertainty after their arrival.
You understood the caution. Still, when your eyes landed on Daryl, all you saw was someone tired. Someone carrying too much.
“You alright there?” you asked softly.
His head snapped towards you immediately, blue eyes narrowing slightly.
You smiled gently. “You look like you could freeze.”
“I’m fine.”
His voice was rough, cautious. You nodded towards the pantry building nearby.
“There’s hot water and tea inside if you want some.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you. People usually flinched when Daryl looked at them too long. You didn’t. Then, awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Uh… thanks.”
You smiled again before walking away, leaving him standing there confused and strangely warm despite the cold November air. Behind him, Carol smirked.
“Oh, she’s pretty,” she said casually.
Daryl frowned. “Shut up.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Ain’t.”
“You absolutely are.”
Daryl grumbled something under his breath and stalked away while Carol laughed quietly to herself. From that moment on, he noticed you everywhere. Watering the community gardens. Helping Olivia organise supplies. Laughing with the children in the street. Sitting beside an elderly Alexandrian woman on her porch for nearly an hour just because she looked lonely.
You never treated Daryl differently, that was what got him.
Everyone else in Alexandria either feared him or tried too hard to make him fit inside their polished little world. You simply spoke to him like he already belonged there. It terrified him.
Weeks passed.
Daryl found reasons to linger near your street more often than necessary. If Aaron noticed, he never said anything.
One cold afternoon, Daryl returned from a run carrying a dead rabbit over one shoulder when he heard your voice coming from an open door nearby.
“I swear that thing hates me,” you laughed.
Another voice answered.
Michonne.
“You could ask someone for help.”
“I have. Tobin looked at it and somehow made it worse.”
Daryl slowed quietly near the porch steps.
“It won’t close properly. There’s a gap at the bottom now, and winter’s getting closer. I shoved towels under it upstairs for now.”
Michonne hummed thoughtfully.
“Rick could probably fix it.”
“Nah, he’s busy enough already.”
Before Daryl could think better of it, he stepped closer.
“I can fix it.”
Both women looked towards him. Daryl instantly regretted opening his mouth. You blinked in surprise before smiling warmly.
“You would?”
His ears burned.
“Yeah. Ain’t hard.”
Michonne’s lips twitched knowingly.
“Well,” she said, already stepping backwards, “looks like you’ve got help.”
“Michonne,” you warned with narrowed eyes.
“What?” she asked innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
Daryl looked between the two of you in confusion while Michonne walked away, smirking to herself. You turned back towards Daryl.
“You really don’t have to if you’re busy.”
“Nah, can come by tomorrow.”
Your smile widened slightly.
“Alright then. Tomorrow.”
Daryl spent the entire night unable to sleep properly. By morning, he had somehow convinced himself this was a terrible idea. You were kind because that was simply who you were. It didn’t mean anything. Meanwhile, he’d spent the entire evening thinking about your smile like an idiot.
Still, the next morning he showed up outside your house carrying tools, spare wood, and a small box of nails he’d scavenged months ago.
You opened the door wearing thick socks and an oversized jumper.
Daryl nearly forgot how words worked.
“Oh,” you said brightly. “You actually came.”
“Said I would.”
“I know.” You stepped aside with a smile. “Come in.”
Your house felt warm.
Not because of the fireplace crackling in the corner, but because it actually looked lived in. Books were stacked unevenly beside the sofa. Blankets folded over chairs. Dried herbs hanging in the kitchen.
Daryl stood awkwardly near the doorway while you closed the door behind him.
“The window’s upstairs, I can make coffee first if you want.”
“I’m alright.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“You’re not very good at letting people do nice things for you, are you?”
Daryl stared at you for a second before looking away.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
You smiled knowingly but let it go. Upstairs, the problem became immediately obvious. Cold air slipped through the bottom of the window frame, making the curtains sway slightly. Daryl crouched near it, inspecting the warped wood carefully.
“Hinge is bent, frame too.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God.”
He glanced up at you.
“Thought ya said it hated you.”
“It does. We’ve been enemies for weeks.”
A surprised laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The sound made you smile immediately.
There it is, you thought.
You handed him nails while he worked. Conversation came slowly at first. Daryl wasn’t used to easy silence with other people. Yet somehow, with you sitting cross-legged beside him on the dusty wooden floor, it never felt awkward.
“You’ve lived here the whole time?” he asked eventually.
“Almost two years now.”
“You like it?”
You considered the question carefully.
“Some days.” You tucked loose hair behind your ear. “It’s safe, which matters. But sometimes it feels strange being safe when so many people aren’t.”
Daryl nodded slowly. He understood that feeling. You looked at him carefully then.
“You hate it here, don’t you?”
“Nah.”
“You absolutely do.”
He sighed quietly, tightening another screw into place.
“Just ain’t used to it.”
“Being safe?”
“People.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”
Daryl’s hands paused completely. He swallowed hard before ducking his head again.
The repair took hours. Mostly because Daryl kept finding more things to fix.
Loose boards.
A damaged latch.
Cold air leaking through cracks in the wall.
You caught on eventually.
“You know, I think you’re inventing problems now.”
“Ain’t.”
“You’ve fixed the same hinge three times.”
He grunted quietly. You laughed softly, and the sound settled warmly underneath his ribs. By evening, snow had begun drifting gently outside. The repaired window shut perfectly.
“No more freezing to death,” Daryl said, wiping his hands on his trousers.
“You’re amazing.” You beamed at him.
“Nah.” His face turned pink instantly.
“You are.” You leaned against the wall with a smile. “Dinner’s the least I owe you.”
“You don’t gotta do that.”
“I know.”
“I should go.”
“You’re staying.”
Daryl blinked, you pointed firmly downstairs.
“Sit. I’m making stew.”
He obeyed before he even realised he was doing it. The smell hit him first.
Rich broth, herbs, warm bread.
It had been so long since someone cooked for him simply because they wanted to. You placed a bowl in front of him before sitting across the table Daryl stared down at the food.
“You alright?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
But his voice sounded rough.
Slowly, he took a bite. The noise he made made you grin instantly.
“Shut up,” he muttered, already taking another bite.
“You like it.”
“Ain’t said that.”
“You nearly moaned.”
“I did not.”
You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth. Daryl shook his head, embarrassed but smiling despite himself.
It happened slowly after that.
The conversation.
The comfort.
The way Daryl stopped sitting so stiffly.
The way his eyes softened whenever you smiled at him.
Candles flickered warmly around the room while snow gathered outside. At some point, you realised Daryl had been staring at you for several seconds.
“What?” you asked softly.
He looked away immediately. “Nothin’.”
Your heart hammered painfully.
Now or never.
You set your spoon down carefully.
“I like you.”
Daryl froze. Completely froze.
You immediately regretted everything.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to say anything, I just thought maybe if I didn’t tell you I’d regret it and I know this is probably awkward now and-”
“Nah.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
Daryl looked horrified instantly.
“No, I mean…” He rubbed a hand over his face roughly. “Ain’t just you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His ears were bright red now.
“I like ya too.”
The words came out rough and uneven, like he wasn’t used to saying things like that aloud. Your entire face softened.
“Yeah?”
He nodded once.
You smiled so beautifully, Daryl thought it might actually kill him.
Slowly, you stood from the table and walked towards him. Daryl looked up at you nervously.
“You sure?” you whispered.
Instead of answering, he reached for your hand.
His fingers were rough and warm against yours.
Then you leaned down and kissed him.
Soft.
Slow.
Daryl melted instantly.
One hand came up shakily to your waist while he kissed you back like he’d wanted to for weeks and never believed he actually could. When you finally pulled away, both of you were smiling.
“You know,” you murmured against his forehead, “you can stay tonight if you want.”
Daryl looked at you carefully, warmth spread painfully through his chest.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” he whispered.
For the first time in a very long while, Daryl finally felt like he was home.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
A/N: I started rewatching The Walking Dead and my Daryl fever is back! I hope you like this one! If I get inspired I might write some more.
The snow had not stopped falling for three days. It buried the forest in silence, softening every sharp edge beneath thick blankets of white. The trees groaned beneath the weight of ice. The river had frozen nearly solid. Even the rabbits had vanished into hidden dens deep beneath the earth.
And still, the creature wandered. His limbs ached with cold. Hunger clawed viciously at the hollow of his stomach until it became something unbearable, something animalistic. He had searched desperately beneath frozen brush for berries long since rotted away. He had dug through snow with numb fingers in hopes of roots or scraps left behind by foxes.
Nothing.
The villagers chased him away whenever he drew too close. Stones. Shouting. Fear.
Monster.
The word followed him everywhere.
By the time night fell again, he could barely walk. Snow clung to his dark hair and frozen lashes as he staggered through the woods. His massive frame shook violently from exhaustion. He had not eaten properly in days. Perhaps longer. Time blurred together now in endless white and gnawing pain.
Then he smelled it. Food.
His head snapped upward instantly. There, hidden between the trees, stood a tiny cottage with golden light glowing through frosted windows. Smoke curled from the chimney into the dark sky.
The creature stared at it for a long moment. He should leave. Humans never reacted kindly to him. He knew this. Every scar upon his body reminded him of it. But the scent drifting from that cottage made his knees weaken. Bread. Soup. Something warm.
His body moved before his mind could stop it. He approached slowly, silently, enormous boots crunching through snow. The closer he came, the more ashamed he felt. He must have looked horrifying. His coat was torn and stiff with ice. Snow melted against the scars stretched across his grey skin. His hands trembled violently at his sides. Starvation had sharpened the angles of his face despite his unnatural size.
The warm glow behind the windows felt impossibly distant from a creature like him.
Still, he stayed outside, just for a moment. Just to smell it.
Inside, you hummed softly to yourself while stirring a pot hanging over the fire. The cottage was warm, filled with the scent of vegetable broth and fresh bread cooling nearby.
Then you heard it.
A crunch outside.
Your movements paused.
Another.
You knew it was too heavy to be a fox. Slowly, you turned toward the frost-covered window.
At first, you saw nothing but darkness and falling snow, then lightning flashed somewhere far away behind the clouds.
And you saw him, you nearly dropped the spoon.
A massive figure stood near the treeline, unmoving. Terribly tall. Wrapped in rags and winter frost. His face was pale and strange, stitched together in ways that made your heart jolt in shock, but it was not his appearance that made you freeze.
It was the look in his eyes.
Hunger.
Pure, desperate hunger.
He noticed you staring and immediately stepped backwards, as though preparing to run.
Your fear twisted painfully into something else.
Pity.
Slowly, you set the spoon aside and moved toward the door.
Outside, the creature tensed instantly when the cottage door creaked open. His body drew tight like a wounded animal expecting attack.
You stepped out carefully, clutching your shawl tighter against the cold.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, softly, you said, “You look freezing.”
The creature stared.
His expression shifted into confusion. You glanced toward the bread cooling in your kitchen window before looking back at him carefully.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” he answered at last.
The voice startled you. Deep. Rough. Hesitant. Like he had not spoken in a very long time.
You noticed the way his eyes lingered desperately on the loaf behind you. The way his hands trembled.
God.
He was starving. So, without another word, you disappeared back inside the cottage.
The creature stood frozen in panic. Perhaps you had gone to fetch a weapon. Perhaps villagers. Perhaps this had all been a cruel trick.
He turned to leave, then you returned, holding half the loaf, carefully wrapped in cloth, alongside a steaming bowl of soup.
“Here,” you said gently.
He stared at the food like he could not comprehend it.
“You may take it.”
Still, he did not move. You slowly stepped forward through the snow and placed the food upon an old tree stump between you before retreating a safe distance. Only then did he approach.
Like a frightened wolf.
His large hands shook as he picked up the bread. Steam curled from the soup into the freezing night air. The creature swallowed hard.
“No poison?” he asked quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“No.”
He looked at you for a long moment, as though trying desperately to understand.
Then he ate. Not elegantly. Not politely. Hunger overtook him completely. He devoured the bread in desperate pieces while clutching the bowl carefully between enormous hands.
You watched silently as colour slowly returned to his face. When he finished, he lowered the empty bowl with visible shame.
“I am sorry,” he muttered. “I did not mean to behave like an animal.”
“You were hungry.”
Nobody had ever said those words to him so kindly before. The creature looked down at the empty bowl in his hands. Snowflakes melted against his dark lashes from the heat of the soup.
“You are not afraid of me,” he said quietly.
You considered the question honestly.
“A little,” you admitted.
He flinched.
“But,” you continued softly, “you also look like someone who has suffered greatly.”
The forest has gone silent around you, for the first time in many months, the creature did not feel hatred reflected in another person’s eyes.
“I did not wish to steal.”
“You didn’t.”
“I have done terrible things.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart ache. You stepped slightly closer despite yourself.
“Well,” you said gently, “tonight you only needed supper.”
The creature stared at you as though those words alone might break him apart. No one had shown him mercy before. No one had looked at him and seen something worth feeding instead of fearing. His eyes lowered quickly, almost ashamed of the emotion gathering there.
“You are kind,” he whispered.
You offered him a small smile despite the cold biting at your cheeks.
“And you,” you said softly, “look like you need somewhere warm before you freeze to death.”
His head lifted quickly.
“You would permit me inside?”
The hope in his voice was almost unbearable. You glanced back toward the glowing cottage. Then, there was the enormous, starving creature standing alone in the snow.
“Yes,” you said.
And for the first time since his creation, Frankenstein’s monster stepped toward a home instead of away from one.
Summary: An arranged marriage leaves Emperor Geta and his empress emotionally distant despite the quiet longing for one another.
The palace was never quiet.
Even in the latest hours of the evening, there were always footsteps echoing through marble corridors, servants whispering behind pillars, senators lingering like ghosts under the torchlight. Rome breathed constantly around the imperial household, yet your chambers were silent.
You sat in front of the bronze mirror while your attendants carefully loosened the golden pins from your hair one by one. Thick strands tumbled over your shoulders as the women worked quietly around you, pouring oils into the bath behind the silk divider.
The marriage had lasted nearly eight months.
Eight months of polite distance.
Eight months of careful glances.
Eight months of sharing a bedchamber large enough to keep two lonely people worlds apart.
Geta had never been cruel to you, that almost made things worse.
Cruelty would have been easier to understand. Instead, your husband was restrained. In ways nobody in Rome expected from him. The senate feared his temper, servants were shaking in front of him, generals bowed their heads the moment he entered a room, yet with you, he was almost painfully careful.
You often caught him watching you across banquet hall and during senate feasts.
Probably the most notable is when he watched you in bed, when he believed you were asleep. But the moment your eyes met his, he always looked away and you did the same.
“Your Majesty,” one servant spoke to you. “The bath is prepared.”
You nodded. The women helped you from your robes before disappearing from the chambers entirely, leaving only flickering candlelight and the sound of water.
At last, alone.
You stepped into the bath with a sigh, the warmth immediately wrapped around your body. Rose oil shimmered across the surface while steam curled lazily toward the painted ceiling.
You rested there until the doors opened.
Geta entered dressed in dark robes, gold embroidery glinting in the candlelight. He looked exhausted, his shoulders were tense, his curls slightly disordered as though he had run his hands through them all evening.
He stopped the moment he noticed you in the bath and immediately, he looked away.
“My apologies, I did not realise you were still awake.”
“You do not need permission to enter your own chambers.”
His jaw moved slightly at that. Those words between you again.
Your chambers.
Your palace.
Your marriage.
Everything shared and yet untouched.
Geta moved toward the table near the balcony, pouring wine into a goblet, he still would not look directly at you.
“You should sleep, tomorrow will be a long day.”
“You say that every night.”
At that, he finally glanced at you.
Only briefly, but still enough to make your pulse quicken.
“I suppose I do.”
Silence returned.
You hated it suddenly. You hated the distance. Hated the endless restraint. Hated how both of you circled one another like strangers despite sharing every hour of the day. Before courage could abandon you, you decided to speak up.
“Would you join me?”
The words nearly disappeared into the steam.
Geta froze. The goblet remained halfway to his lips as he slowly turned toward you.
“What?”
You suddenly wished Rome would collapse and bury you beneath it.
“In the bath,” you clarified softly, unable to meet his eyes now. “You seem tired.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
You could hear your own heartbeat. Then he set the goblet down.
“You wish for my company?”
The question sounded genuine.
Not teasing. Not arrogant.
He sounded almost confused.
“Yes.”
Another long silence filled the room before he finally approached the bath slowly. You watched him loosen the gold clasps at his chest. His imperial robes slipped from broad shoulders before he folded them neatly nearby with surprising care. He entered the water opposite you.
Neither of you spoke.
Geta rested his arms along the edge of the bath, eyes fixed somewhere near the water rather than on you.
“You have never asked me for anything before,” he admitted quietly. You traced your fingertips through the water.
“You have never asked me either.”
“That was intentional.”
“Why?”
His eyes lifted to yours at last, because you were close now, truly close for perhaps the first time since your wedding, you could finally see what usually hid underneath his composure.
“I did not want this marriage forced onto you more than it already was. You lost your home because of Rome. Because of me.”
Your chest ached unexpectedly.
“And you?” you asked softly. “Did you want it?”
“When does an emperor marry for love?”
The answer should have felt cold. Instead, it sounded lonely. The feared emperor of Rome sitting quietly across from you in warm water and candlelight, looking more uncertain than dangerous.
“You never frightened me,” you confessed. “They all seem terrified of you, but whenever you looked at me… you looked frightened instead.”
“You are my wife.”
“As if that explains anything.”
“It explains everything.”
Geta leaned back slightly, watching you through the steam.
“You are the only person in this palace who looks at me like a man instead of a throne.”
Geta went still again as you reached for his hand under the surface. His fingers twitched once before carefully intertwining with yours.
Neither of you spoke for a while after that.
You simply sat together in the candlelight, holding hands under the rose-scented water, you could hear his breathing and you were sure he could hear your heartbeat. Geta was the first to speak up.
“I think I have wanted this for a very long time.”
You looked at him.
“A bath?”
For the first time since you had known him, your husband laughed. The sound transformed him entirely.
“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing carefully across your knuckles. “You.”
Summary: It is a small injury. But to Zeno, anything that harms you is unacceptable.
It happens so quickly you barely register it.
One moment, you are in the kitchen, reaching for something just a little too far back on the shelf.
Next, your grip slips.
Glass shatters and soon, pain follows.
“Ah-” you hiss, instinctively pulling your hand back as a thin line of red runs across your palm.
It is not deep nor is it serious, just enough to sting. You are already reaching for a towel, more annoyed than anything else, when you hear it. You turn your head just as Zeno appears in the doorway, his presence immediate, overwhelming, like he has materialised out of the air itself. And you almost have a feeling that he did, given how far he was only seconds ago.
His eyes land on your hand and everything else disappears.
“What happened?” he asks, more demands but you choose to ignore the sharp edge.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, already putting a tissue on your palm. “I just-”
“Show me.” it was not a question.
You hesitate for half a second before sighing and giving him your hand.
“It’s just a cut, Zeno, I'll be fine.”
He is in front of you before you finish the sentence, his hand closes around your wrist, not rough, but firm enough that you cannot pull away even if you wanted to.
“You are bleeding.”
“…Yes, that tends to happen with cuts.”
Zeno does not react to your tone, he is too busy assessing the situation.
“How long ago?”
“About thirty seconds ago.”
“Cause?”
“A glass broke. It’s not a crime scene.”
“It is if it compromised you.”
You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Zeno.”
He finally looks up at you.
“What?”
“It’s tiny.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“That is irrelevant.”
You barely have time to protest before he is already moving, he guides, or rather pulls, you toward the counter, clearing space with quick, efficient motions.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
There it is again, that tone, you know better than to argue. You sigh, but comply, hopping up onto the edge of the counter as he disappears for exactly three seconds before returning with what looks like an entire medical kit.
“Zeno, this is excessive.”
“It is appropriate.”
“For a paper cut?”
“It is not a paper cut.”
“It’s basically a paper cut.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he takes your hand again, far more carefully this time.
“Do not minimise injury.”
“You’re overreacting,” you whisper.
“No,” he replies immediately. “I am reacting correctly.”
“Why does this bother you so much?”
For a moment, he does not answer, his focus remains on your hand as he cleans the cut, his touch careful despite the tension in his posture.
“Because it should not have happened.”
“Zeno, it was an accident.”
“Then the environment was flawed.”
“You’re going to redesign the kitchen over this, aren’t you?”
“If necessary.”
“I was joking.”
“I was not.”
You shake your head, but you cannot stop the small smile that forms on your lips.
“You’re impossible.”
“I am thorough.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am correct.”
His grip on your hand changes slightly, as he finishes wrapping it.
“There,” he says.
You glance down at the neat bandage, then back at him.
“All that for this.”
“All that, because it is you.”
“It doesn’t even hurt that much,” you admit.
Zeno’s gaze moves back to your face.
“It did.”
“Past tense.”
“It was unacceptable then. It is still unacceptable now.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him more carefully.
“You really mean that.”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens, not uncomfortable, just… warm.
“You know,” you say softly, “most people would’ve just handed me a plaster and moved on.”
“I am not most people.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You’re not.”
You slide off the counter before he can stop you, your uninjured hand resting lightly against his arm.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him.
Zeno’s gaze drops briefly to your bandaged hand, then back to your eyes.
“I will monitor it.”
You laugh softly. “You’re going to monitor me?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
You shake your head, stepping just a little closer.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient.”
You smile, softer now, your fingers curling lightly against his sleeve.
“It’s sweet.”
Zeno pauses.
That, more than anything else you have said, seems to catch him off guard.
“…Sweet,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Carefully, like you are testing something, you lean in, your forehead almost brushing his.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, Zeno’s hand lifts, resting against your wrist, avoiding the bandage.
“I will make sure you remain that way.”
You cannot help it, you smile because for all his intensity, all his precision, all his inability to treat anything involving you as minor… There is something undeniably comforting in it.
Something steady and certain.
And as his thumb brushes lightly against your skin, you realise you do not mind his overreaction. Not when it means you are the thing he refuses to risk.
Summary: The fearsome Jotun, worshipped as a god, grows restless when the only human who treats him as more than a monster stops giving him attention.
The first time the villagers called him a god, you almost laughed. Not because he was not terrifying enough to deserve the title, but because they said it as if the massive figure standing at the edge of the forest was something divine rather than something very real, physical, and capable of tearing through anything and anyone without so much as slowing down.
You had seen him up close and you knew better.
He was not a god.
He was something far more dangerous and, as you would come to learn, far more complicated.
The others called him Jotun.
A giant of the mountains, a creature of war that brought death to those who strayed too far into his territory.
You called him nothing at all, at least not at first because when he had found you, injured and alone after a raid that had scattered your people, he had not spoken, had not even approached immediately.
He had simply watched you and when you did not scream, did not run, did not bow… he had stepped closer.
That was how it began.
Now, seasons later, he stands just beyond the village once more, watching.
He does that often.
Standing at the edge where forest meets open field, his presence alone was enough to keep most people from wandering too far without reason.
The others avoid him.
They always do. They lower their heads. They whisper. They move away.
But you…
You walk straight past him.
Because you are used to him and he is used to you.
At least, that is how it has always been.
Until recently, you have been busy.
The village has needed you.
Injuries from hunting, sickness from the cold, small accidents that turn serious when left unattended, all of it falling into your hands because you are one of the few who knows how to treat more than just surface wounds.
And so your days have filled, and so did your nights.
Time that once you spent with quiet walks near the forest’s edge, to and conversations that no one else would dare attempt, even with moments where a massive, silent hunter would sit beside you.
All that time has been given elsewhere.
You do not notice it at first, you only notice when he speaks.
“You neglect your duties.”
The voice is low, rough, and unfamiliar to most but not to you, it makes your chest tighten just slightly when he uses it.
You glance up from where you are kneeling beside an injured hunter, your hands stained with dried blood as you work carefully to wrap a wound along his arm.
“My duties?” you repeat, blinking slightly in confusion.
He stands behind you.
Closer than usual.
“You attend to them,” he says, his eyes flicking briefly toward the man you are helping, then back to you. “You have not attended to me.”
For a moment, you simply stare at him, then, a small breath of amusement escapes you.
“I didn’t realise you needed tending to.”
“I do not.”
“Then what am I neglecting?”
He does not answer immediately, instead, he remains where he is, is silence.
“You have been absent.”
You shake your head lightly, returning your attention to your work.
“I’ve been busy.”
“I see that.”
Something in his tone makes you glance up again.
There is something in his eyes, you see it, but you choose to ignore it.
That is your second mistake.
Over the next few days, he becomes impossible to ignore.
Before he would watch from a distance, now he is always there. Standing just outside whatever space you occupy.
Silently.
Unmoving.
Watching.
If you move, he moves. If you leave one place, he appears in another not long after.
At first, the villagers grow uneasy.
Then they begin to avoid you as well, unwilling to be too close when the so-called Jotun has decided that your presence is where he will remain.
It becomes inconvenient.
You are tending to a child’s fever when he steps inside the hut without warning, his large frame forcing him to duck.
The child’s mother immediately backs away.
You sigh.
“What are you doing?”
“You are needed elsewhere.”
“I am needed here,” you reply, not even looking at him as you adjust the cloth on the child’s forehead.
“You have been here long enough.”
“I have not.”
Without warning, he reaches down and takes the bowl of water from your hands.
“What are you doing?”
“This is inefficient.”
“Give that back.”
“No.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
The child whimpers softly.
You press your lips together, irritation rising deep in your chest.
“You cannot just interrupt me every time you decide I’ve spent enough time with someone else.”
“They are not important.”
“They are to me.”
That stops him, but only for a second.
But you notice it immediately.
The slight shift in his posture.
The way his mandibles tighten just slightly.
“They are weak,” he says.
“They are human,” you counter.
“So are you.”
“Yes,” you say firmly. “And I still choose to help them.”
A moment of silence, then he slowly sets the bowl back down, but he does not leave.
He watches you give your time, your attention, your care to others, and every time, something in him seems to grow more agitated, though he refuses to admit it.
Until you finally have enough and snap a couple of days later.
“What do you want from me?”
The words come sharper than you intended, frustration finally busting through as you turn to face him fully, your arms crossing over your chest.
“You follow me everywhere, you interrupt my work, you scare half the village just by standing there, and you refuse to explain why.”
He does not answer immediately, instead, he looks at you.
As if he is trying to find something in your expression that will give him the answer he refuses to say aloud.
Then he looks away.
He makes his usual clicking noises, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you have ever heard it.
“You have not touched me.”
You blink.
“What?”
“You have not, in many days.”
For a moment, the frustration drains out of you entirely, replaced by something else. Something close to laughter.
“That’s what this is about?”
He does not respond. Which is answer enough.
You step closer until you stand directly in front of him, close enough to see the faint changes in his breathing, the tension in his shoulders.
“You could have just said that,” you murmur.
“I did.”
“Finally.”
He huffs slightly, a low sound of clear dissatisfaction.
You smile, then you lift your hand and touch him.
Your fingers brushing against his arm, tracing the cold skin, then moving higher, resting briefly against the side of his face, just under his mandibles.
The reaction is immediate.
Subtle to anyone else but not to you.
His entire body relaxes, the tension that had been coiled tight through him for days loosens all at once, his shoulders lowering just slightly, his head tilting ever so faintly into your touch as if he cannot quite help it.
You watch it happen, and you smile.
“You’re calmer now,” you tease gently.
“I was always calm.”
“You were brooding.”
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were.”
He does not argue further, but instead, he remains where he is, close to you, not moving away.
When you finally pull back, he does not follow, but he does not step away either.
“Will you ignore me again?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You were.”
“I was busy.”
“That is the same.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then do not be busy for so long.”
“I’ll try.”
That seems to satisfy him for now.
He turns around, stepping back toward the doorway, but not before pausing just long enough to glance at you once more.
As if he is making sure you are still there.
Still his.
You offer hims a smile and when he leaves, the space does not feel as heavy.
Because you know, he will be back, and next time… you won’t make him wait so long.
Summary: At a tense royal dinner, you feel isolated as others speak Valyrian around you, unable to understand their words. When Aegon mocks you for trying to learn, Daemon defends you, in his own way.
You have never felt smaller than when the court starts talking in Valyrian.
It happens without warning, and you suspect with intent.
You sit still when it happens, back straight, hands folded in your lap, pretending not to notice.
But you always notice.
And tonight, as voices rise and fall around the long table during the tense family dinner, you hear it again. A few of them glance at you.
Then they speak in that language again. Your throat tightens. You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at your husband, Daemon.
He is already watching them.
There is something sharp in his eyes, something dangerous, beyond the usual danger. But when his eyes flick to you, just for a moment, it softens.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. You lean closer to him, your voice quiet.
“What did they say?”
He studies you for a second, as if weighing something, then leans in just enough for only you to hear.
“Nothing worth your concern.”
You hesitate.
“It matters to me.”
That gets his attention, his head tilts slightly, silver hair moving over his shoulder, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he really looks at you now.
“You wish to understand them?”
“I hate not knowing. It feels like they are laughing at me.”
Daemon stops for a moment, then he says, “Sometimes, they are.”
It stings. But you appreciate the honesty. You let out a small breath.
“Then teach me.”
That surprises him. Daemon leans back slightly.
“Valyrian is not easily learned.”
“I do not care. I want to try.”
“Very well.”
Your heart lifts instantly.
“Tomorrow,” he adds, voice low. “We begin with something simple.”
You smile, soft and relieved, unaware of the eyes watching from further down the table. Unaware of the trouble which would follow.
It happens later in the evening.
The tension at the dinner has already been building, as it always is when the family gathers. You are doing your best to remain composed when it starts again.
Valyrian.
This time louder. Less subtle.
You catch a word you recognise.
Barely. Daemon had murmured it to you earlier.
“Rȳbagon.”
Beautiful.
Or something close to it.
But the rest slips past you. Then laughter follows. And this time, you know.
It is about you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your cup.You try to ignore it. Until a voice cuts through, lazy and cruel.
“Careful,” says Aegon, loud enough for everyone to hear. “She might learn a word or two and think herself one of us.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table. Heat floods your face as you lower your gaze.
“I hear she has begun lessons,” Aegon continues, mockery dripping from every word. “How charming. Perhaps in a few years she will manage a full sentence.”
More laughter. Your chest tightens painfully. You open your mouth, though you do not know what you would even say.
But you never get the chance.
The sound of Daemon’s cup hitting the table is sharp. Silence follows instantly. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and far more dangerous than shouting.
“Say that again.”
Aegon leans back, smirking, clearly amused.
“I only meant that she is not of our blood. Surely you cannot expect her to grasp Valyrian as we do.”
Daemon rises slowly to his feet, the movement alone is enough to make several people shift uncomfortably.
“You mock her for seeking knowledge. For attempting to honour our customs.”
Aegon shrugs.
“I mock weakness.”
That is the wrong answer. You see it the moment it lands. Daemon moves before anyone can stop him. The chair scrapes harshly behind him as he steps forward, one hand braced against the table as he leans in toward Aegon, eyes blazing.
“Then you should begin with yourself. A drunken fool who mistakes cruelty for wit.”Aegon’s smirk dissapears, but Daemon is not done. “You speak of blood,” Daemon continues, each word sharper than the last. “Yet you disgrace ours with every breath you take.”
The room is completely still now. No one dares interrupt.
“You will not speak of my wife again. Not in this tongue. Not in any other. Unless you want me to rip out yours.”
A long silence follows, then Daemon straightens, turns, and walks back to his seat as if nothing happened.
But his jaw is tight. His anger is still there, you can feel it much like everyone else in the room when his hand finds yours, it is firm. You turn to look at him and you offer him a small smile.
It is a silent thank you.
Later, in your chambers, that fire has not yet faded. Daemon paces. Back and forth. Like a caged dragon.
And you know, he hates being caged.
“They think themselves superior. Because of a language. Because of blood.”
You watch him, heart still full of happiness from what he did, but aching at the storm still raging inside him.
“Daemon,” you say softly.
He does not stop.
“They forget themselves. All of them.”
You took a step closer to him.
“Daemon.”
This time, you reach for him as he finally looks at you. Your hands find his face, his breathing is still uneven, his eyes still burning, but now they are on you.
“You should not have to endure that. Not for their amusement.”
“I did not endure it. You ended it.”
Something changes in his expression, you lean up slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and then another.
“I am grateful,” you say.
His hands come to your waist.
“They will not speak to you that way again.”
“I know.Because you are terrifying.”
A small huff of breath leaves him, almost a laugh. You brush your lips against his again.
“And because you care.”
That lands deeper.
His grip tightens just slightly, not harsh, just… certain.
“I do."
You rest your forehead against his.
“Then teach me. So next time, I can answer for myself.”
“Very well.” His thumb brushes along your jaw. “Repeat after me.”
You nod.
And as he begins to teach you, his voice quieter now, meant only for you, the language no longer feels like a barrier.
Summary: After an exhausting day, Leon comes home to the comfort of a home filled with the smell of his favourite meal and freshly baked brownies.
The first thing he notices is the smell.
It hits him the second he steps into the hallway. Warm. Rich. It makes something in his chest loosen before he even realises it. Leon pauses just inside the door, keys still in his hand.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Breathing it in.
Garlic. Something slow-cooked. And underneath it, faint but unmistakable… chocolate.
His shoulders drop slightly, he finally allows himself to relax.
Home.
He shuts the door behind him and slips his jacket off, setting it aside.
The kitchen light is on.
You’re there, just like he thought you’d be. Your back turned, moving between the stove and the counter, sleeves rolled up, completely focused on whatever you’re doing.
You don’t notice him at first.
Leon leans against the doorway for a second, watching you. There’s something about this moment that always gets him.
“Smells like you’re trying to bribe me,” he says finally, voice low. You jump slightly, turning around with a small gasp.
“Leon! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Stealth training,” he replies easily.
“Or you just walk quietly.”
“That too.”
You smile, wiping your hands on a towel before stepping closer.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah.” He exhales softly. “Long day.”
You don’t ask him to explain. Instead, you reach out and gently take his hand, tugging him further into the kitchen.
“Sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Leon lets himself be guided without resistance. That alone says a lot. He drops into the chair at the table, elbows resting on his knees for a second as he runs a hand over his face.
Then he looks up again, at you. Moving around the kitchen like this is second nature.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder.
“I wanted to.”
There’s no hesitation in your voice, no expectation attached to it.
Just truth.
Leon leans back in the chair slightly, watching you again.
“What is it?” he asks.
“You’ll see.”
“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“It’s your favourite.”
He pauses.
“…which one?”
You grin.
“Exactly.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Yeah, alright. That’s unfair.”
You plate the food carefully, then set it down in front of him. Steam rises from it. He stares at it for a second.
Then at you.
“You made this?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Rude.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I just… didn’t expect all of this.”
You lean lightly against the counter, watching him.
“Well, try it.”
Leon picks up the fork slowly. Takes a bite. There’s a small pause.
Then something changes in his expression, you catch it just in time.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
“Good?”
“Really good.”
That’s all he says, but you know him well enough to hear everything underneath it. You smile quietly and turn back to the counter.
“Good. Because there’s dessert too.”
Leon glances up.
“…there is?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you walk over and set a small plate in front of him.
Brownies.
Still slightly warm.
He looks at them. Then at you.
“You made brownies too?”
“Maybe.”
Leon stares at the plate for a moment then he sets the fork down.
"Marry me." he says with such a serious face, it makes you laugh.
"I already did." you show him the ring on your finger.
"Marry me again. You have been doing this all day?” he asks.
“Not all day.”
“Most of it.”
You don’t answer, that’s answer enough. Leon pushes his chair back slightly and stands up. You barely have time to react before he closes the distance between you. His hands settle at your waist.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says again, quieter now.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
You look up at him.
“Because I love you.”
As you say it, it is so simple.
Honest.
His hand moves at your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your side. He doesn’t answer with words, instead, he leans down and kisses you.
Slowly, with passion.
His forehead rests against yours when he pulls back.
“Yeah, I love you too, Sweetheart,” he murmurs.
It’s quiet. But it’s everything. You smile softly.
“Go sit. Your food’s getting cold.”
He doesn’t move right away.
His hand lingers at your waist for another second, then he gives a small nod and steps back.
“Yes, Ma'am.”
As he sits down again, he glances at you once more. You are still in the kitchen, still moving around like this is normal.
Like this is just another evening. Leon picks up his fork again. Takes another bite.
And for the first time all day, his mind finally goes quiet.
Summary: When Mattheo Riddle overhears Slytherins plotting against you, he makes a dangerous choice. In exchange for his protection, he demands your companionship, a pact that begins as a strategy but deepens into something neither of you could have predicted.
The whispers followed you through the Slytherin common room, sharp and cutting as the flick of a blade.
You had long grown used to them, but lately the glances had become colder, the laughter more purposeful. That night, as you passed by the alcove near the stairwell, you caught your name in a hushed conversation.
“Tomorrow. By the courtyard. She will not see it coming.”
Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself not to look back.
What you did not notice was Mattheo Riddle, leaning lazily against the wall in the shadows, his sharp eyes catching every word. His jaw tightened, though his expression remained unreadable.
The next day, he appeared beside you in the corridor as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You are far too trusting,” he drawled, his tone filled with mockery. “Do you always wander into traps with your eyes wide open?”
You frowned, clutching your books tighter.
“What are you talking about?”
He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper.
“A handful of snakes with nothing better to do than plot your humiliation. You do not actually believe they were whispering about anyone else, do you?”
“How do you know?”
Mattheo smirked, though his eyes flickered with something sharper. “Because I heard them. And because, unlike you, I actually pay attention.”
You narrowed your eyes. “So what, you decided to play hero?”
“Hardly,” he said smoothly. “Let us call it an investment. I am offering you protection, but I expect something in return.”
You scoffed. “Of course you do. What is it then, Riddle? My soul? Eternal servitude?”
His lips curved, the faintest trace of amusement softening his features. “Companionship. Nothing more, nothing less. Stay by my side, and they will not dare touch you. You get safety, I get… well, someone who does not bore me senseless.”
Your brow furrowed. “You want me to play at being your friend?”
“Not play,” he replied, tilting his head. “Be.”
Against your better judgment, you agreed.
Not like you had any other options. It was either him or public humiliation... again.
And true to his word, the whispers quietened. Where you went, Mattheo lingered.
At meals, his chair scraped closer.
In lessons, he stole your ink or passed you notes filled with dry commentary about the professors. At first, you bristled at the intrusion, but soon you caught yourself stifling laughter at his remarks, your irritation softening.
One evening in the library, you spoke up, “You are impossible, you know that?”
He smirked, lounging back in his chair. “And yet, here you are. Sitting with me instead of leaving.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Because you will not leave me alone.”
His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual. “Maybe. Or maybe you do not want me to.”
Your heart skipped before you ducked your head, pretending to return to your book.
It was weeks later when the mask cracked.
You had stumbled upon him in the courtyard at night, sitting alone, a cigarette between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, far from the smirk he wore so easily in daylight.
“You should not be out here,” you said gently.
He glanced at you, then shrugged. “Neither should you.”
You sat beside him despite his tone.
Silence stretched before he finally said, “They will always hate me, you know. The Riddle name ensures it. People look at me and see him.”
You swallowed, realising with a jolt that he was letting you see a part of him no one else did. “Then let them see wrong. You are not him.”
He turned, eyes searching yours. “You say that so easily. As if you mean it.”
“I do mean it,” you whispered.
For once, Mattheo had no reply. He simply stared, the arrogance gone, leaving only something raw and unguarded.
From then on, the pact shifted. It was no longer about safety or strategy. It was about you and him, the unspoken pull between you.
He grew softer when no one else was looking, a brush of his hand against yours, a muttered goodnight that carried more weight than the word should. You grew bolder, teasing him back, laughing more easily when he smirked.
One evening in the common room, he leaned close, his voice low.
“Do you regret it? Making the pact?”
You met his gaze steadily. “Not for a second.”
Something broke in him then. He reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek as though testing a boundary. When you did not pull away, his lips met yours, the kiss slow and careful, as if he feared you might vanish.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You are mine now,” he whispered. “No pact, no bargain. Just mine.”
“And you are mine.”
The whispers never truly ceased, but it did not matter.
With Mattheo’s hand in yours, the weight of the world felt lighter.
What had begun as a pact of convenience had become the one thing you could not imagine losing.
And Mattheo Riddle, who once claimed he wanted only companionship, had found something far greater in you.
The rain had begun sometime after sunset, a soft drizzle tapping against the tall windows of the sitting room.
The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, giving the space a warm glow that contrasted beautifully with the cold, storm-dark world outside.
You and Victor had settled on the sofa together after dinner, he with a stack of notes at his side, you with a book resting on your lap. It was supposed to be a quiet evening of shared company, each of you reading, occasionally trading thoughts or observations.
It ended up being something else entirely.
Victor had been explaining one of his theories to you, his voice calm and steady, hands moving in subtle gestures as he spoke. You listened with your head against his shoulder, the rhythmic sound of his voice soothing enough to send you drifting.
He did not notice at first. He was in the middle of describing a chemical process when your lack of reply caught up with him. He looked down, intending to ask if you understood, and found you silent, eyes closed, your cheek pressed softly against his arm.
The sight froze him.
He stared for a moment, the words dying on his tongue. Your eyelashes rested gently against your skin, your breathing was slow and even, and your hand had slipped slightly off your book, fingers curled loosely.
Victor swallowed, as if the shape of his heart had changed all at once.
“Love,” he whispered cautiously, “are you awake?”
You did not answer. If anything, you relaxed further, your forehead nudging the fabric of his shirt.
Victor’s shoulders softened. He reached hesitantly to adjust your head, making sure it rested comfortably against him. His fingers brushed your hair, and he felt his heart lurch in a way that was almost frightening.
He could create life, but he still did not understand how a simple touch from you managed to quiet every fear inside him. He sat still, afraid to disturb you.
Minutes slipped by, then longer, the storm outside deepening into gentle thunder. Victor watched you with the kind of attention he usually reserved for delicate experiments. You shifted slightly, your hand resting against his ribs, and he let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.
Your warmth against him was grounding, steadying, anchoring him to the world in ways no scientific principle ever had.
Eventually, Victor whispered, “You are far more comforting than any laboratory.”
He did not expect an answer. You slept soundly.
He lifted his hand again, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers hovered at your cheek, barely touching, as if he was terrified of breaking something precious.
“You will think me foolish,” he murmured quietly, “but I like this. I like that you feel safe like this. With me.”
Outside, thunder rolled faintly. Inside, the fire dimmed.
Victor leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes for a moment. If he slept, he feared he would miss something. Your breath against his collarbone. The way your fingers twitched when you dreamed. He wanted to be awake for all of it.
Hours passed.
The fire burned low. The rain slowed. Candlelight flickered gently over the curve of your cheek.
When you stirred at last, your eyelashes fluttering, Victor straightened instantly.
Your voice was soft with sleep. “Victor? Did I fall asleep?”
“You did,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, though you caught the faint strain in it.
“For how long?” You rubbed your eyes, looking around. The room’s dimness answered before he did.
He looked away, as if embarrassed. “A while.”
You blinked. “Did you fall asleep too?”
“No.”
You sat up slowly, turning toward him. “Victor, you stayed awake just to let me sleep on you?”
His cheeks warmed. “It was not intentional at first. I simply realised you were comfortable, and I did not wish to disturb you.”
You smiled. “You could have moved.”
“I did not want to,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.
You reached for his hand. “My love,” you said gently, “you should have slept too. You will be tired.”
“I am always tired,” he said with a small laugh, “but I have never minded it less.”
Your heart softened at his honesty.
“You stayed awake for hours?”
“Perhaps longer,” he said, eyes dropping shyly. “It was rather peaceful. You are rather peaceful.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. He stilled, breath catching, the tips of his ears turning a bright shade of red.
“I love being close to you,” you said.
Victor swallowed. “I love it as well.”
You smiled and rested your forehead against his. “Next time, wake me, so we can go to bed together.”
He nodded, though the soft, guilty smile on his lips told you he probably would not.
You kissed him again, slower this time, and his hand found your waist, holding you as if you were the only steady thing in his strange, beautiful, haunted world.
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