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Summary: To the world, Jason Voorhees is death incarnate. To his wife, he is the man who catches falling leaves before they can touch her.
The forest was loud that evening.
Branches swayed together overhead, cicadas sang from somewhere beyond the lake, and the breeze carried the scent of damp earth after an afternoon shower.
Jason walked ahead as he always did. Not because he wanted to leave you behind, but because he was clearing the path without even thinking about it.
A fallen branch blocked the narrow trail.
He stopped.
One enormous hand wrapped around the thick limb, lifting it as though it weighed nothing before tossing it several metres away. The path was clear again.
You smiled.
“You know I could’ve stepped over it.”
Jason glanced over one shoulder. Even behind the weathered hockey mask, you recognised the look immediately.
No.
That single tilt of his head was enough. He wasn’t going to risk you tripping. You caught up to him, slipping your fingers around two of his. Your entire hand barely fit around them.
He looked down.
For a second, the towering killer who haunted Crystal Lake simply stood there, looking at your joined hands as though they fascinated him.
Then his fingers curled carefully around yours.
Always gentle.
You continued walking. Leaves occasionally drifted from the trees above, spinning lazily toward the ground. One floated directly toward your face.
Before it could touch you, Jason’s hand appeared.
The leaf landed against the back of his glove instead.
You laughed.
“Jason…”
He looked at the leaf.
Then at you.
As if he genuinely couldn’t understand why you found it amusing.
“You know,” you teased, “I can survive a leaf.”
His shoulders rose slightly.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You laughed harder, stepping in front of him.
“Come here.”
Jason stopped immediately.
There wasn’t a force on Earth capable of making him obey another person. Yet when you held your arms open, he complied without hesitation.
He bent his knees slightly so you could reach him.
You wrapped your arms around his middle.
Even then, you barely reached halfway around his waist.
“You worry too much.”
One hand settled carefully against your back. The pressure was almost nonexistent.
You had watched him drive an axe through solid timber. You had watched him throw grown men several feet with one arm. Now that same hand rested against you with the caution of someone holding blown glass.
“You know,” you murmured against his jacket, “everyone thinks you’re frightening.”
He remained still.
“They’ve never seen this side of you.”
His thumb moved once against your back. The closest thing Jason had to absent-minded affection. You leaned back enough to look up at the mask.
“I have.”
His hand rose to your cheek. His rough, scarred fingers brushed your skin with impossible care. As if he was afraid pressing even a little too hard. You leaned into his touch.
“I love you too.”
He froze.
Those words always affected him.
Jason never said them aloud.
Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he didn’t know how anymore. Instead, he answered the only way he ever had.
He rested his forehead against yours, the edge of the hockey mask touching your brow. His free arm encircled your waist completely, sheltering you against his chest.
The woods continued around you. Birds called. The lake rippled. Nothing dared come closer.
Not because Jason was standing there, but because every living creature in Crystal Lake seemed to understand something instinctively.
The giant in the hockey mask wasn’t hunting tonight. He was simply holding the most precious thing in his world, and if anyone, or anything, disturbed that peace.
The forest itself would remember why everyone feared the name Jason Voorhees.
Rain tapped against the roof of your home, the soft sound would have helped you sleep on any other day, but not tonight.
Tonight, sleeping was impossible.
Your newborn son was crying again. The sound was loud, but constant, his little cries filling every corner of the house. You were lying under the thick furs, instinctively trying to sit up.
The moment you moved, pain shot through your body. A fever had settled over you two days ago, leaving you weak, dizzy, and barely able to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. The healer had assured both you and Kwei that you would recover, but your body needed rest.
Rest.
It was the one thing you could not seem to have. Before you could force yourself to sit up, a hand rested against your shoulder.
“No. You stay.”
“Our son…”
“I know.”
“You do not know how to…” You looked at him with tired eyes. This was not his duty by Yautja law. It was yours.
“I will learn.” His answer left no room for argument, law or not.
He pulled the fur back over your shoulders, tucking it around you before getting out of the nest.
Your eyes followed his every move.
Your enormous husband, the one feared by countless warriors, respected throughout the clan, moved toward a cradle no bigger than one of his hunting packs.
The baby cried harder. Kwei frowned.
“I am here.”
His deep voice filled the room. Nothing changed. The crying only grew louder. He carefully lifted your son into his arms. It looked almost ridiculous, the size of Kwei’s hands compared to the tiny body he held so carefully.
“There.” The crying continued. “You are safe.”
But your son was still crying. Kwei adjusted his hold. He had seen you cradle the baby countless times. He tried copying you.
Didn’t work.
“Our little hunter.” The baby screamed. Kwei blinked. “…You are not hunting.”
More crying.
He glanced helplessly toward the nest. You were watching him with half-open eyes. He looked back at the baby.
“I have defeated creatures larger than this house. I once fought three warriors. You are a lot more difficult.”
He checked the blanket. Dry. He reached for the bottle.
The baby refused it.
He paced.
Still crying.
He bounced him gently.
More crying.
Every solution he knew failed. His breathing grew slower. Not because he was calm. Because he was trying very hard not to panic.
He had faced death. He had watched hunters fall beside him. He had stood against creatures that could tear him apart. None of those moments had made his heart race like this. Because he understood battle. He did not understand this.
“Kwei…”
Your voice was barely more than a whisper. He turned immediately.
“I think…” You smiled weakly. “He wants you closer.”
“I am holding him.”
“You are.” You patted the place beside you. “Come here.”
Kwei sat on the edge of the nest, still holding the crying baby. You shifted with obvious effort, every movement making him wince more than it seemed to hurt you.
“You should rest.”
“I will.”
You reached out slowly.
“May I?”
He carefully lowered the baby, the little one immediately stretched his tiny hands toward you.
“There you are.”
The baby quieted slightly. Not completely, but enough.
“You smell different from me. He knows your scent too, but mine has been with him since before he was born.”
Kwei watched closely.
“He remembers?”
“He does.” You rested one gentle hand over the baby’s back. “But…” You looked at Kwei. “…he needs to learn yours too.”
Kwei remained completely still.
“What do I do?”
“Talk to him.”
“I have.”
“Not like you would speak to another hunter.” A tiny laugh escaped you. “Speak to him like he is your son.”
Kwei looked down. The baby had grown quieter, though little sniffles still escaped him. He hesitated, then spoke again. His voice had changed.
It was no longer the commanding tone he used with warriors, it wasn’t filled the certainty he carried into every hunt.
What remained was something gentle.
“My little one.” The baby blinked. “I know you are upset.”
His large thumb brushed against the baby’s tiny hand.
“I do not know why. But I am trying.” Your heart melted. “I have never done this before.”
The confession came so quietly you almost missed it.
“I know how to hunt. I know how to fight. I know how to protect. But this…” His eyes lifted to yours for only a moment. “…this is much harder.”
“You are doing wonderfully.” You smiled warmly.
“I am failing.”
“You are learning.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is every difference.” You reached over, laying your hand gently against his arm. “He does not need perfection. He only needs his father.”
The baby made another tiny sound.
Not a cry. A sigh.
Kwei looked down. His son had curled one small hand around one of Kwei’s fingers. Holding on with all the strength his tiny body possessed. This action caused Kwei to freeze.
“He…”
Your smile widened.
“He chose you.”
The little grip tightened, Kwei swallowed.
“I have held spears with less determination.”
You laughed a little and for several long minutes, neither of you spoke.
The baby slowly drifted back to sleep, his breathing evening out against Kwei’s chest. The room became peaceful once more. Only the rain and the fire remained. Kwei continued looking down at his sleeping son.
“I was afraid.”
The admission was almost swallowed by the crackling flames. You turned your head toward him.
“Afraid?”
He nodded once.
“When he cried… I believed something was wrong.”
“You checked everything.”
“I did.”
“And when none of it helped…” His shoulders lowered slightly. “I could not fix it.”
There was frustration in his voice.
Helplessness.
“I have spent my life believing that every problem could be solved. A sharper blade.A better plan. A stronger arm.” He looked at your son. “None of those things matter to him.”
“No. You protected him tonight.”
“I did not stop him crying.”
“You stayed. You kept trying. You loved him through it.”
“So that is enough?”
“It is more than enough.”
Kwei let out a long breath, shaking his head with the smallest smile.
“I believed becoming a father would be similar to hunting.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“You did?”
“Hunting is considerably easier.”
“I could have told you that.” you laughed.
“I would not have believed you.”
“I know.”
“I believe you now.”
Still smiling, you rested your head against his shoulder, watching your son sleep peacefully between you. For the first time since your fever began, you did not feel alone. And for the first time since becoming a father, Kwei understood that not every victory came from knowing exactly what to do.
Sometimes, it came from refusing to give up until the people you loved finally felt safe enough to rest.
Kwei does not understand humans. After all these years together, there are still moments that leave him completely confused. Some of them are small.
Why you smile at flowers. Why you insist on hanging dried herbs from the ceiling even when they have already served their purpose. Or why you always stop to watch the first snowfall of winter.
Others… He understands even less. Today is one of those days.
You are humming quietly to yourself while kneading dough near the fire, your youngest sitting nearby with a collection of wooden animals Kwei carved over the years. Your eldest is helping his father repair a spear shaft, though “helping” mostly consists of asking far too many questions.
Kwei is patient. More patient than the younger version of himself ever could have imagined.
“…Father?”
“Hm.”
“What is Mother’s favourite animal?”
Kwei glances toward you. Without looking up from your work, you smile.
“You are asking him?”
The boy nods enthusiastically.
“I want to know.”
Kwei answers before you can.
“The snow fox.”
“How do you know?”
“You stop to watch them every winter.”
You finally look up. A surprised smile spreads across your face.
“You noticed?”
He simply looks back at you. Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you.
The way you always sleep facing the fire. The herbs you reach for when your head aches. The songs you hum without realising it. The way your eyes brighten whenever the first snow begins to fall. These things matter because they belong to you.
That evening, after the children have fallen asleep, you sit together near the fire. Your head rests comfortably against Kwei’s shoulder while he continues carving a small piece of wood. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of his knife and the crackling fire.
“Kwei?”
“Hm.”
“Can I tell you about something we celebrated on Earth?”
“You may.”
“It was called a birthday. We celebrated every year after someone was born.”
“…Why?”
“Because we were happy they existed.”
“You already exist.” He tilts his head.
“I know.”
“So why celebrate again?”
“Because another year has passed.”
“…Humans celebrate surviving?”
“I suppose that is one way to look at it.”
He considers this very seriously.
“It seems inefficient.”
You grin.
“It probably does.”
He resumes carving.
“I celebrate you every day.”
The words are so simple that they nearly steal your breath.
“I know.”
“So why would one day be different?”
You reach for his hand, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.
“It isn’t about being different. It is about reminding the people you love how grateful you are that they were born.”
His eyes stay on yours for a long moment, hen he nods once.
“I understand.”
But judging by his expression… You are fairly certain he does not.
Months pass. Winter gives way to spring. Spring becomes summer. Life continues exactly as it always does.
Hunts.
Meals.
Children running through the house. Quiet evenings together. The conversation about birthdays disappears from your mind. Kwei, however… Remembers everything.
A few weeks before autumn arrives, he quietly begins disappearing after his hunts. Not for long. Just enough that you notice. When you ask, he answers.
“I had something to finish.”
You do not question him.
Then, your birthday arrives. You have not mentioned it. You never expected to celebrate it. It has been years since anyone did. You are preparing breakfast when Kwei enters the house carrying something wrapped carefully in soft leather. You look up.
“You are back early.”
“I am.”
“Good hunt?” You smile.
“It was.” He walks directly toward you. Stopping close enough that you can see a hint of nervousness in his posture.
It is so unusual that you almost laugh. He holds the wrapped bundle out toward you.
“This is yours.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
You carefully unwrap the leather. Inside rests the most beautiful carving you have ever seen. It is a snow fox. Its fur has been carved so carefully that every strand seems almost real. Its eyes are gentle. Its tail curls around its body exactly the way you once described seeing them sleep.
You stare, unable to speak. Your fingers trace carefully across the smooth wood.
“Kwei…”
“It is your birthday.”
“You remembered?” You look up so quickly your eyes sting.
“You told me.”
“I only mentioned it once.”
“You mentioned it.”
As if that alone explains everything. Your vision begins to blur.
“Oh…” The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Kwei immediately stiffens. His mandibles lower.
“You are crying.”
“I know.” You laugh through another tear. His expression changes instantly. Concern replaces everything else.
“Did I carve it incorrectly?”
“No.”
“Do you dislike it?”
“No.”
“Is the fox inaccurate?”
“It is perfect.” You shake your head, laughing even harder now. He still looks uncertain.
“You are crying.”
You set the carving down carefully before stepping forward and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. He freezes for only a heartbeat before embracing you just as tightly.
“I love it.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.
“I have never received something so thoughtful.”
He relaxes slightly.
“You are not unhappy?”
“No.”
“So… these are happy tears?”
You nod.
“Humans are strange.”
“We are.” You smile against him. He is quiet for a long moment before speaking again.
“I wished to remind you.”
“Of what?” You pull back slightly. His hand comes up to gently cup your face.
“That I am grateful you were born. Because if you had not…” He glances toward the room where your sons are still sleeping peacefully. “…I would not have this home.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheek, wiping away another tear. “I would not have our sons.” Then he looks back at you. “And I would not have you.”
You reach up, resting your hand over his.
“I think… you understand birthdays now.”
Kwei thinks for a moment. Then nods.
“It is not about celebrating another year.”
“No?”
“It is about thanking fate.”
“For what?”
“For bringing you into mine.”
You laugh softly before standing on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Behind you, a sleepy little voice suddenly breaks the quiet.
“…Mother?”
You both turn. Your eldest stands in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Can I have a birthday too?”
You burst into laughter, Kwei looks at him very seriously.
“Yes.”
The little boy grins.
“Will Father carve me something?”
Kwei looks back at you for just a moment before answering.
“I believe… that has become a tradition.”
And from that year onward, every birthday in your home was greeted not with grand celebrations or loud gatherings, but with something far more meaningful.
A hand-carved gift made with patience, thought, and love.
One unique carving for each member of the family, each telling a story that only Kwei could carve, and only the person receiving it could truly understand.
Years later, those little wooden figures would line the shelves of your home, each one a quiet reminder that love was not measured by the size of the gift, but by the care with which it had been made.
Summary: When Rorschach is arrested and sent to prison, the world sees a murderer behind bars. You see your husband.
The first time you entered the prison, every eye followed you. Some even recognised you.
“That’s his wife.”
“Poor thing.”
“Bet she didn’t know.”
You kept your head high, becuase you knew, they don't know Walter. The guard stopped outside the visiting room.
“You’ve got thirty minutes.”
You nodded. Your hands trembled anyway. Not because of Walter. Because of everyone else. You knew exactly who filled these cells.
Murderers.
Rapists.
Gang leaders.
Men your husband had personally dragged into police custody over the years. Men who had sworn revenge.
The steel door buzzed open.
Walter stepped inside wearing the coarse orange prison uniform.
Without his mask. Without the shifting inkblots that hid his face.
Every single time you saw him without it, your heart ached.
His red hair was untidy. Bruises coloured one cheek. His lip was split.
He looked tired. So very tired.
But when he saw you…
Something changed, only for half a second. The hardness softened, not enough for anyone else to notice, but it was enough for you. You stood before you could stop yourself.
“Walter…”
He sat down.
“So you came.”
“I’ll always come.”
“Shouldn’t.” His eyes searched yours.
“What?” You frowned.
“People watching.”
“I don’t care.”
“They’ll use you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care.”
You reached across the table. For a moment, he simply stared at your hand, Walter had never been good with affection in public.
Even after years of marriage. Slowly… his scarred fingers rested over yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.
“I’m exactly where I belong.”
For a moment, there was silence, then you looked at him more.
“You’ve been hurt.”
“It's nothing.”
“Walter.”
“They tried.”
“…Who?” Your stomach tightened.
He shrugged.
“Everyone.”
“I knew this would happen.” You felt sick.
“They’re cowards.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“They’re criminals you arrested.”
“They’re criminals.”
“I know you didn’t kill him.” You leaned forward, Walter looked at you.
“You believe that.”
“I know it.”
“Why?”
The question surprised you.
“You’ve never lied to me.”
“I’ve hidden things.”
“Not the important ones.”
“You know what I am.” His eyes drifted down.
“I do.”
“Not good man.”
“I disagree.” He gave the smallest shake of his head. “Broken.”
“Missed you.” His expression became serious again. The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. Your heart broke.
“You did?”
“…Yes.” He looked annoyed with himself.
“I missed you too.”
“Apartment quiet?”
“Too quiet.”
“Cat?”
“Still ignores me.”
“Hm.”
“He sits by the window every evening.” Walter looked away. “He waits for you.”
Silence. You knew what he was thinking. He would never admit it, but he missed that cat. Even if he insisted the creature merely tolerated him.
You reached into your handbag.
“I brought something.”
The guard immediately stood.
“No objects.”
“It’s just a photograph. It was checked beforehand.”
After checking it thoroughly, again, he allowed it. Walter accepted it.
It was a picture of your sitting room. The cat asleep in Walter’s old chair. Blanket folded over the arm. His journal still on the table where he’d left it.
Home.
His thumb brushed over the edge of the photograph.
“…Looks the same.”
“I’ve left everything exactly as it was.”
He stared at it for a long moment, then folded it with extraordinary care.
“You’ll keep it?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll remind you what you’re coming home to.”
“You think leaving.” Walter looked up sharply.
“I know you’re leaving.”
“They’ll try to keep me.”
“We’ll prove you’re innocent.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No evidence.”
“We’ll find it.”
“You shouldn’t waste your life.”
“My life is with you.”
His jaw tightened.
“You deserve…” He stopped but you finished for him.
“Someone normal?”
He nodded once, but you laughed.
“I married a man who wears a mask made of moving ink.”
He almost looked offended.
“It’s fabric.”
“I know.”
“You chose this.”
“I chose you.”
His eyes closed. As if hearing those words hurt more than any punch he’d received.
“You shouldn’t love me.”
“I do.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think.”
“I’ve done terrible things.”
“You’ve done necessary things. You’ve saved people. You’ve protected children. You’ve given everything for justice.”
“No compromise.”
“I know.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
Even if it kills me.
He didn’t say those words. He didn’t have to. They hung between you. The loudspeaker crackled.
“Visiting time ends in two minutes.”
“So soon?”
Walter stood up from his chair.
“I’ll come next week.” you said.
“Dangerous.”
“I’ll still come.”
“They may follow you.”
“I’ll still come.”
“They could hurt you.” You walked around the table before the guards could stop you.
“Walter…”
One guard sighed.
“Make it quick.”
You wrapped your arms around your husband.
For the first second, he froze.
Unused to being held. Then his arms enclosed you with surprising gentleness.
Carefully. As if you were something fragile. He buried his face against your hair. You heard him breathe. One long, shaky breath.
“I love you,” you whispered.
He said nothing.
For a moment.
“…Know.”
You smiled through tears.
“And?”
His voice cracked.
“I love you too.”
It sounded painful, like the words had fought their way through walls built over decades.
You kissed him. The guards separated you. Walter never looked away.
Not once.
Until the steel door closed between you. That evening, back in his cell, another inmate sneered.
“Your little wife still thinks you’re a hero.”
Walter sat on the edge of his bunk. Carefully unfolding the photograph.
Looking at the little apartment.
The waiting cat.
The home that still believed in him. His voice was calm.
“She knows truth.”
The inmate laughed.
Walter folded the photograph and slipped it safely inside his prison Bible.
For the first time since entering prison… The cell did not feel quite so empty.
Because somewhere beyond concrete walls and iron bars… You were waiting.
And Walter Kovacs had never broken a promise to come home.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Outside, the wind brushed softly against the stone walls before disappearing into the darkness. The fire has burned low, filling the home with a gentle orange glow that dances across the furs spread throughout the room.
Everything is peaceful.
Until a small cry breaks the silence. It starts quietly.
A soft whimper. Then another.
Within moments, it grows louder. Your son has woken. Kwei opens his eyes immediately.
Years of hunting have taught him to wake at the smallest sound. Before becoming a father, that instinct meant danger.
Now… It meant a hungry baby.
He turns his head. You are still asleep beside him, curled under the heavy furs, your face is half hidden against the pillow, your breathing slow and wonderfully deep.
He watches you for a moment. Dark circles still rest underneath your eyes. Your body is healing, but not as quickly as either of you hoped.
Pregnancy had been difficult, the birth had been harder. Some days you smile and laugh as though nothing happened, but other days, he finds you asleep sitting upright because you tried so hard to stay awake with the baby that your body simply stopped listening. He hates those days. Not because you complain.
Because you never do, you always apologise instead.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him whenever he catches you struggling. “I’ll be alright.”
He wishes you would stop saying that. Because you do not need to apologise for bringing his son into the world. Another cry comes from the small cradle beside the fire.
Kwei glances back toward you.
You do not stir, not even a little.
He has learned the difference. Usually, even before the baby begins crying properly, you wake immediately.
Tonight… Nothing.
You are completely exhausted. His chest tightens. He slips carefully from the nest, making sure not to disturb you as he crosses the room.
The crying grows louder.
“I know.” His voice is low. Calm. “I hear you.”
The tiny bundle kicks impatiently underneath the blankets. Two bright eyes blink up at him, Kwei cannot help the small movement of his mandibles.
His son always looks so serious. Even while crying.
“You have your mother’s lungs,” he mutters quietly. The baby answers by crying louder. “I understand.”
He bends down carefully, one enormous hand sliding under the tiny body with a gentleness that still surprises him.
Months have passed, and he is no longer afraid of holding his son.
The first time, he had barely breathed, convinced he might somehow break him. Now the movements come naturally.
Strong arms. Gentle hands.
The baby settles against his chest, wrapped securely in one arm while Kwei reaches for the bottle you prepared before falling asleep.
“I know what you want.” The crying continues. “So impatient.”
He sits near the fire before offering the bottle. Immediately, the crying stops and Kwei lets out the quietest breath.
“There.”
The tiny hands wrap clumsily around the bottle, more interested in drinking than holding it.
For several moments, the only sound is the crackling fire. Kwei studies the small face before him.
Months old.
Growing, already stronger than he was when he first came home.
“You frightened us.” The words leave him quietly. “So small.”
His thumb brushes carefully across the baby’s soft skin.
“Your mother carried you through every season.”
His eyes drift toward the nest.
You have not moved. Still finally resting.
“I watched her become tired.” His voice grows softer. “I watched her smile anyway.”
The baby blinks sleepily, drinking without understanding a single word.
“She was sick in the mornings and sometimes at night. Sometimes all day. She said she was fine.” He huffs quietly. “She lied.”
The baby makes a tiny noise around the bottle.
“I know.” Kwei smiles to himself. “I told her the same.”
His gaze returns to you. Even asleep, you look tired. There are moments when he still remembers seeing you after the birth.
Pale. Shaking.
Barely able to keep your eyes open. Yet the first thing you asked…
“Is he alright?”
Not whether you were alright. Whether your son was.
Kwei has never forgotten it. He doubts he ever will.
“You have her heart.” He looks back down at the baby. “Kind.”
His thumb brushes gently across the baby’s tiny hand.
“You will learn from her. You will learn patience. You will need it.”
The baby finishes eating, blinking slowly as sleep begins pulling him away once more. Kwei lifts him carefully onto his shoulder. Large fingers begin rubbing slow circles across the baby’s back. The tiny body gives a quiet burp.
“There.”
He cannot help the quiet chuckle that follows.
“A mighty hunter.” Another tiny yawn. “So fierce.”
The baby’s eyes flutter closed. Within minutes, he is asleep again.
Kwei remains where he is.
Holding him, while watching the fire and watching you.
His home.
Years ago, he believed strength was measured by trophies hanging from walls. By scars. By victories.
Now…
Strength looks different. It looks like a woman who gave everything she had to bring new life into the world. It looks like a tiny child sleeping peacefully against his chest. It looks like choosing to stay awake so the person you love can finally rest.
He stands up slowly, walking back toward the cradle, he lays his son back onto the soft furs, adjusting the blanket until only his small face remains visible.
The baby sighs. Kwei watches him for another moment before returning to the nest. You are exactly where he left you.
One hand tucked under your cheek, hair falling across your face, he kneels beside you. Carefully brushing a few loose strands behind your ear. You make the smallest sound.
But you do not wake up. You only lean instinctively toward his touch. He slips back under the furs, wrapping one arm carefully around your sleeping body.
You move closer immediately, almost unconsciously, pressing against his warmth with a quiet sigh that sounds more content than anything he has heard all day. Still asleep, you whisper something he almost misses.
“…thank you…”
His eyes widen slightly. You never opened your eyes. You never woke up. Yet somehow… you knew.
He lowers his head, pressing the gentlest kiss against your forehead.
“So stubborn,” he murmurs. His hand rest over yours. “You carried him. Tonight…” His eyes close. “I will carry both of you.”
Your son sleeps peacefully. You sleep even deeper.
And Kwei stays awake for just a little while longer, listening to the steady breathing of the two people who have become the greatest purpose of his life.
Only when he is certain that both of you are resting peacefully does he finally allow himself to close his eyes, knowing that, for one night at least, you have been given the gift of uninterrupted sleep.
Tagged by @mentallydestroyedfemme thank you for the tag!
Currently watching: Nothing in particular, but I have been enjoying many Minecraft horror mod vids. I recommend Vivilly, Calvin and jimdoga2
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Currently working on: Lots of different things, more Zeno, Yautja. I'm always looking for new things and ideas.
Currently wearing: Thanks to the heatwave, I'm sitting in my panties and a tank top with the AC on.
Last google search: I was looking for a new bag and sandals so I was looking some up.
Favourite flower: Hydrangeas, Red spider lily. I'm a huge flower lover, almost all my tattoos have flowers incorporated.
A/N: I never really do anything like this, but this time, I thought, why not? I decided not to tag people on this, sorry. But if you guys are interested, I can make something a little more detailed so you all can meet the person behind the fiction.
Leon comes home, exhausted and carrying far too much gear.
He unlocks the front door, expecting the house to be quiet.
Instead, he hears you laughing outside as your favourite songs play.
He walks through the house and opens the back door.
The first thing that hits him is the summer heat.
The second is you.
You’re sitting in a bright blue inflatable pool that is clearly meant for children, wearing a swimsuit and oversized sunglasses. One hand trails lazily through the water while the other holds a glass of homemade lemonade.
There’s another untouched glass sitting beside you. Almost as if you knew exactly when he’d get home. You grin the second you spot him.
“There you are.”
“…Is that a pool?” Leon blinks.
“No.” You look around dramatically, causing him to laugh under his breath.
“You bought a kiddie pool?”
“I didn't want to wait for a contractor to actually build one.”
“…Fair.”
“Come in.” you pat the edge of the pool.
Leon looks at the tiny thing.
“It’ll collapse.”
“It has excellent structural integrity.”
“It definitely doesn’t.”
“It survived me.”
He looks at you.
Then at the pool.
Then back at you.
“…You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He disappears inside without another word. You think he’s going to shower first. Instead, five minutes later, the back door opens again. Leon is wearing nothing but a pair of swimming shorts.
His hair is damp where he splashed water over it. He carries the second glass of lemonade.
“You actually came.”
“You challenged me.”
“I absolutely did.”
He walks over to the pool.
Looks down.
Then carefully lowers one foot into the water. You bite your lip.
“It’ll be fine.”
“It sounded expensive.”
“It cost twenty dollars.”
“That explains it.”
Very, very carefully, Leon sits down opposite you.
The pool immediately sloshes water over the sides.
Cold water splashes onto the grass while you burst into laughter, Leon looks down at the puddle forming around the pool.
“…We may have exceeded capacity.”
“I think we’re about fifty per cent pool and fifty per cent Leon.”
From there, the story becomes wonderfully quiet. You stretch your legs over his. Your feet bump together beneath the surface.
The lemonade is icy cold. The sun is warm on your skin. Leon leans his head back and closes his eyes.
You realise… He’s smiling.
Not the polite smile he gives strangers. Not the tired one after work. You reach over and gently brush a droplet of water from his shoulder.
“Tired?”
“So tired.”
“You don’t have to talk about work.”
“I know.” He opens one eye. “…Thank you.”
“For what?”
“This.”
You look around at the tiny plastic pool.
“This masterpiece?”
He chuckles.
“No.” His fingers find yours in the water. “For making me stop.” He intertwines your fingers. “I don’t think I’ve sat still in…” He thinks for a second in silence. “…I don’t even remember.”
Your heart aches a little.
“So don’t think.”
“Easier said than done.”
You slide closer in the water until your knees rest against his.
“Then let me help.”
“How?”
“Just stay here.” You cup his face in both hands.
Leon looks at you for a long moment, then his hand settles gently on your waist.
He leans forward. The kiss is slow. His lips are warm from the sun and sweet from the lemonade you’d both been drinking.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You missed me too.”
“Of course.”
“You were supposed to deny it.”
“I would’ve been lying. I don't lie to you.” You smile. “I missed you every day.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes his thumb along your cheek, then quietly says the words that mean more coming from him than anyone else.
“I came home.”
You understand exactly what he means.
Not just to the house.
To you.
To this.
To a plastic pool that’s much too small.
To lemonade sweating in the afternoon heat.
To the woman waiting for him in the sunshine.
He came home, and today, for once, there are no monsters.
No radios. No gunfire.
Just blue skies.
Cold lemonade and enough room in a tiny inflatable pool for the only two people who matter.
Warnings: kidnapping, human trafficing, mention of past abuse
Summary: You survived an Umbrella experiment that turned your blood into both cure and curse. Sold off and traded like an object. Zeno buys you, but your quietness unsettles him more than any resistance ever could. What begins as ownership slowly turns into care, and care into something neither of you are prepared for.
The hall was too bright for something so rotten.
Light filled the space and reflected off of polished floors. There were too many smiling faces that did not belong in a place like this. People spoke in low voices, as though civility could disguise what was happening.
You were sitting still.
That was what you had learned to do. Stillness meant less attention. Less attention meant less pain. You learned that long ago. A handler stood nearby, reading numbers, descriptions, words that meant nothing to you anymore.
“Subject L-107. Female. Estimated age biologically mid-twenties. Chronological age uncertain due to accelerated regenerative stabilisation. Blood type classified as reactive bio-regenerative agent. High-value asset.”
Asset.
That word still meant something, unfortunately. You stared at the floor. Not because you were afraid. Because looking up rarely changed anything.
Zeno entered like he owned the place. He had a white suit on, a cigarette between his lips.
He was not like the others. Not eager. Not entertained. Observant. He was searching for something.
His eyes moved across the room slowly, taking in everything, until it landed on you.
You already knew that look. Scientists wore it. Soldiers wore it. People who saw “use” before they saw “person”. He found what he wanted.
The bidding began.
Numbers rose.
You did not move.
You never did.
Then Zeno spoke.
“Mine.”
The room quietened immediately. The hammer fell and just like that, you were no longer in the room you had been standing in.
He did not speak to you during the transfer. That was normal.
You were escorted, not accompanied.
Doors opened. Doors closed. Eventually, you stopped counting, eventually, you stopped expecting anything else.
What you were not prepared for is that you were taken to a home not a lab. You were shocked to see a house instead of the usual cold labs with buzzing lights.
His home was quiet. Not empty. Not cold. But you could tell he didn't spend much time here, everything was unused.
You were taken inside, a room that had too much space. A chair was there.
You sat in it without being told. That was also normal.
People preferred it when you did not make things complicated. Zeno watched you from the doorway. You did not look at him for long. You never looked at anyone for long.
“You are not what I expected,” he said finally.
You blinked once. Did not answer. Silence was safer. He stepped further inside.
“You are quieter than your file suggested.”
Still no response from you. Zeno tilted his head slightly.
“Do you understand me?”
You nodded once but didn't say anything. Silence was safe.
Days passed.
He brought food. He asked questions. You answered briefly. That was the pattern.
He did not seem pleased. Nor angry. Just aware of something not working as intended.
“You do not speak unless spoken to,” Zeno observed one afternoon.
“Yes.”
One word, he frowned slightly.
“That is not a conversation.”
You looked down again. It was not meant to be. But he didn't push you any further. He just stood up and left you alone while he went to smoke on the balcony.
On the fourth day, he tried again.
“What do you want?”
You hesitated. The question was unfamiliar, no one ever asked you that before.
What do you want? You weren't even sure what you truly wanted. But you decided to give the safe answer.
“Nothing.”
“That is not likely.”
You did not respond, and again, he left for a smoke.
By the end of the week, something in him changed. Not frustration to say, but something very similar to that. He had likely expected compliance. Or fear. Or at least some form of resistance.
Instead, he had received stillness and silence, and it was starting to irritate him.
“You are not difficult,” he said.
You sat by the window. You did not turn.
“That is the problem.”
You finally looked at him, confused. He was the first one who found your silence a problem, Zeno stepped closer.
“I need interaction. Conversation. Response. Not repetition.”
“I answer you.”
“That is not interaction.”
You tilted your head slightly, you were genuinely confused.
“It was before.”
That made him stop. Properly stop. For the first time, something softer entered his expression. His irritation gone in a second.
“You were taught to be like this,” he said.
It was not a question, but you answered anyway.
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“People who owned me before.”
Zeno did not respond, you could tell he was thinking. Deliberating on his next sentence and when he spoke again, his voice had changed.
“You are safe here,” he said.
“Yes.”
“That is not what I meant. You do not need to behave as if silence is protection.”
That made you pause, you looked at him. Silence had always been protection. Everything else had been risk. You did not know how to explain that. So you did not. Something in him softened some more.
“I want you to speak when you choose to,” Zeno said.
You nodded.
“Okay.”
He exhaled, almost inaudibly.
“That is not a request for agreement.”
“Then what is it?”
“Permission.”
That word did not sit correctly in your mind at first.
Permission. For what?
The following days changed. Zeno stopped asking only functional questions. He began asking smaller ones.
“What did you think of that?” “Did you like it? “Was that comfortable?”
You answered, still briefly. One evening, he placed a cup of tea in front of you. You stared at it. Then at him.
“I noticed you prefer this kind,” he said.
You hesitated.
“…Yes.”
“Why?”
That question again.
You stared into the cup longer this time.
“I do not know,” you admitted.
Zeno didn't push.
“That is reasonable.”
Days became weeks.
You began to speak more, not much, but enough that silence was no longer your only language. He noticed but said nothing, he was afraid if he did you would go back to the silence and he definitely didn't want that.
“You laugh sometimes,” he said one day.
“…Do I?”
“Yes. Quietly. But I noticed.”
That made something move in your chest. You did not know what to do with that. So you looked away.
Later, you found yourself sitting in the same room as him, not across from him, but nearby.
“I was not meant to keep you,” Zeno said suddenly.
You looked at him, allowing him to continue.
“I acquired you for study.”
That should have meant something bad. It did not feel like it anymore. You waited, he glanced at you.
“And yet you are not behaving like data.”
“What am I behaving like?”
“Someone I cannot categorise.”
That night, you did something you had not done before. You asked a question first.
“Why do you keep checking on me?”
Zeno looked up from his work.
“Because you are unstable.”
“…I am?”
He hesitated for a moment before he spoke up to correct himself.
“No... I do not understand you fully.”
That felt closer to truth.
You thought about that for a moment.
“I was not allowed to be understood before.”
“Then that will change,” he said, not like a promise, but more like a decision.
Something inside you changed at that. It was completely unfamiliar.
Weeks later, you were sitting by the window again.
But this time, Zeno sat nearby.
“You are quieter than most people,” he said.
You glanced at him.
“I was trained to be.”
“Do you want to stop?”
You considered that, longer than usual, then answered honestly.
“I do not know how.”
Zeno nodded.
“Then we will learn.”
It was the first time he used “we”.
Not “you”.
Not “I”.
You looked at him properly then.
And for the first time, you did not feel like an object in the room.
You felt this was a new start. A new beginning to an actual life.
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The Sword He Chose For You Part II: What The Trophies Meant
Part I
If anyone had asked you whether the Grendel King paid special attention to you, your answer would have been yes. If they had asked whether he respected you, your answer would also have been yes. If they had asked whether he enjoyed your company more than most, you would probably have admitted that as well.
What you would not have said, under any circumstances, was that the King was courting you.
Because that would have been ridiculous.
The Grendel King was many things.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Respected.
Feared.
A ruler whose name carried enough weight to silence entire rooms.
But interested in you? Romantically? The idea had never crossed your mind. Not even once.
Which, in hindsight, explained why the poor male had looked increasingly frustrated over the last several months.
The realisation came during a feast.
Ironically, it was not the King who caused it, it was another female.
You were seated among several hunters near one of the lower tables while stories and laughter filled the enormous hall, your attention divided between the meal before you and the conversation happening around you. Eventually, the discussion shifted toward mates.
You immediately lost interest. Until one female began describing how her mate had courted her.
“He brought me trophies,” she explained proudly.
Several others nodded.
“Mine too.”
“My mate dedicated a hunt to me.”
“Mine gifted me a weapon.”
“Mine kept appearing wherever I happened to be.”
The table erupted into amused agreement.
You froze, and looked down at your plate, then back at them.
“Trophies?” you asked.
“Of course.”
“Hunting trophies?”
“Yes.”
You swallowed.
“A dedicated hunt?”
The female nodded.
“A great honour.”
Something began forming in your stomach.
“What kind of weapon?”
“A blade.”
You stared.
The female continued eating. Completely unaware that she had just shattered your understanding of the last year.
A blade.
A dedicated hunt.
Trophies.
Your mind immediately began replaying every interaction you had experienced with the King over the previous months.
The skull from the northern valleys.
The river beast claws.
The dedicated hunt.
The hides.
The horns.
The gifts.
All of them. One after another. A horrible realisation slowly began climbing its way into your consciousness.
“No.”
The female looked up.
“What?”
You shook your head.
“No.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No.”
Your voice sounded slightly strained. The female frowned.
“You look unwell.”
Because suddenly you remembered every single time you had smiled brightly and said:
“Thank you.”
Before walking away.
You spent the rest of the feast staring into the distance. The female beside you eventually became concerned. You barely noticed because your thoughts kept circling the same horrifying possibility.
The King had been courting you.
For months.
And you had not realised.
Not once. Not even slightly.
The next morning, the King found you standing outside the armoury.
The moment he approached, you immediately became aware of every gift he had ever given you. Which made maintaining eye contact surprisingly difficult.
“You are behaving strangely.”
You nearly jumped.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am perfectly normal.”
The King stared. You stared back, then his eyes narrowed slightly.
“You know.”
“What?”
“You know.”
Your heart nearly stopped. The King studied your face. Then, for the first time since you had known him, something suspiciously close to satisfaction appeared in his expression.
“You finally understand.”
Mortification swept through you.
“Oh stars.”
The King’s chest rumbled.
“You understand.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You did not.”
“I genuinely didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Oh, this is embarrassing.”
The rumble became stronger. The enormous warlord was enjoying this. To your surprise, he did not press further.
Instead, after watching you suffer through several moments of obvious embarrassment, he finally spoke.
“Hunt with me.”
You blinked away the confusion and the embarrassment.
“What?”
“Hunt with me.”
The words were simple, yet somehow they felt different now. Everything felt different now.
“You are asking me on a hunt.”
“Yes.”
“This is a date.”
The King looked genuinely confused.
“It is a hunt.”
“It is also a date.”
“It is a hunt.”
The King’s mandibles shifted slightly, a small victory.
The hunt took place three days later and for perhaps the first time since entering the clan, you felt nervous.
Not because of the prey.
Not because of the danger.
Because you wanted to impress him. Which was ridiculous.
The King already respected you. He had clearly respected you enough to spend months attempting to court you and yet the desire remained. You wanted him to see exactly why you had earned your place within the clan.
The prey was enormous.
Fast.
Aggressive.
Everything a worthy hunt should be. The moment combat began, instinct took over.
The nervousness disappeared. Years of training replaced it.
The creature charged, you moved.
The beast roared. You countered. Steel flashed. Blood followed.
The battle descended into chaos, and within that chaos, you thrived.
By the time the fight ended, you stood atop the creature’s body, breathing heavily while dark blood covered your armour and sword.
The beast lay dead beneath your feet. The King stared.
You looked down, then back up.
“What?”
He didn't answer, but he did look impressed.
The King approached slowly. His gaze never leaving yours.
“You continue to surprise me.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You are brave.”
He stepped closer.
“You are intelligent.”
Closer.
“You are strong.”
Closer.
The other hunters immediately found reasons to look elsewhere.
“You are respected.”
Your pulse thundered The King stopped directly before you, towering over you. Yet somehow making the world feel smaller.
“You are everything I hoped for.”
For once in your life, you had absolutely no response. The King lowered himself slightly.
Not kneeling, but enough. Enough to meet your eyes fully.
“I have attempted courtship.”
You covered your face.
“I know.”
“I was unsuccessful.”
“You were very unsuccessful.”
The King’s mandibles twitched.
You suspected that was the closest he would ever come to rolling his eyes, then his expression softened.
A rare thing.
“Will you be my mate?”
The question hung between you.
Your chest tightened because while the words were simple, their meaning held a great deal. Suddenly all those trophies meant something.
Every hunt.
Every gift.
Every effort.
Every attempt.
Months of devotion hidden behind the customs of a species different from your own.
You smiled, then reached for his hand.
“Yes.”
Happiness immediately swept through his entire posture.
Adorable.
And before you could stop yourself, you laughed.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to realise.”
The King pulled you closer.
“You are worth the wait.”
And judging by the way his chest continued rumbling long after that, he meant every word.
A/N: Today, I am finally moved into my apartment, it was a long journey due to renovations and unexpected turns but here I am, and here's a piece to celebrate. More to come!
The First Kiss
This one would not be smooth, at all.
Daryl would spend weeks, possibly months, working himself up to it, second guessing every look and every touch until one quiet moment became too much to ignore.
After staring at you for several long seconds like he was trying to gather every ounce of courage he possessed, he would lean in slowly enough to give you every opportunity to stop him.
You would never stop him.
The kiss itself would be soft and hesitant, because despite how capable Daryl was in almost every other aspect of life, this would be one area where he genuinely felt vulnerable.
When you kissed him back, the relief alone would probably make his knees weak.
The “I Missed You” Kiss
These would happen after long runs.
You barely have time to greet him before he pulls you into his arms.
Not rough.
Not desperate.
Just deeply relieved.
Daryl would bury his face into your hair first, holding you close for several seconds before finally kissing you like he needed proof that you were really standing in front of him.
These kisses always lasted longer than usual.
The Desperate Reunion Kiss
This type happened after something went wrong.
Maybe a herd separated you. Maybe a building collapsed. Maybe Daryl genuinely believed he lost you.
For hours.
The moment he finally found you again, every bit of composure disappeared.
Daryl wasn’t usually someone who acted first and thought later.
Except when it came to you.
The second he realised you were alive, he’d be crossing the distance immediately, grabbing your face in both hands before kissing you hard enough to leave you breathless.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he needed to.
Because the thought of losing you had hollowed him out from the inside. The first words afterwards would probably be:
“Don’t ever do that again.”
As if the separation had somehow been your fault.
The Forehead Kiss
These were Daryl’s favourite.
He gave them when words failed him.
When you were tired, upset or sick. When he simply looked at you and felt overwhelmed by how much he loved you.
A forehead kiss from Daryl always meant the same thing.
The Protective Kiss
These happened before dangerous runs.
Before battles.
Before anything uncertain.
Daryl wasn’t good at goodbyes.
Never had been.
So instead of saying everything he wanted to say, he’d pull you close, press a firm kiss to your lips, then rest his forehead against yours for a second.
It was his way of saying:
Come back to me.
Without actually having to say it.
The Jealous Kiss
Rare.
Very rare.
Daryl wasn’t the type to start fights over jealousy.
But if somebody had spent the entire day flirting with you and refusing to take the hint?
The second you found yourselves alone, he might wrap an arm around your waist, pull you against him, and kiss you slowly enough to make a point.
Not to you.
To himself.
Because sometimes even Daryl Dixon needed reminding that you were really his.
The Sleepy Kiss
These might be the sweetest.
The reader wakes up before sunrise and finds Daryl already getting ready for a run.
Before leaving, he’d lean down and press a sleepy kiss against your forehead or temple, thinking you were still asleep.
Then he’d freeze when you smiled.
“You’re awake.”
“Apparently.”
“Go back ta sleep.”
The Angry Kiss
After an argument.
After hours of stubborn silence.
After both of you have had enough.
Eventually one of you says something emotional.
Something honest.
And suddenly all the frustration turns into relief.
These kisses are intense.
Messy.
Emotional.
The kind where neither person can quite decide whether they want to keep arguing or start apologising.
Usually both.
The “I Love You” Kiss
The most important kiss Daryl ever gives.
Not because it’s dramatic.
Because it’s simple.
One ordinary evening, maybe while you’re cooking or sitting on the porch together, he looks at you and feels so much affection that he can’t hold it in anymore.
He kisses you gently.
Then quietly says:
“Love ya.”
And just like that, the words he’s struggled to say for so long finally become easy.
Because they’re true.
The Old Married Couple Kiss
Years later.
After everything.
After surviving the apocalypse together.
These kisses happen absent-mindedly.
A kiss on the shoulder while passing each other in the kitchen.
A kiss on the cheek before bed.
A kiss against your temple while sitting together on a porch watching the sunset.
Not because they wanted them open. Because Negan had demanded it. The entire community stood frozen as dozens of Saviors poured through the streets, collecting supplies, loading trucks, taking whatever they pleased.
Fear hung in the air. Children were hidden away. Adults stood stiff and silent.
And right in the middle of it all walked Negan.
As if he owned the place. Which, in a way, he did. Lucille rested comfortably across his shoulders as he strolled down the street with a grin. Beside him walked his wife.
You.
Unlike the women who used to fill Negan’s harem, you had never been chosen only for your looks.
You had earned your place.
You could fight.
You could survive.
You had broken a man’s nose for insulting Negan before he’d even had the chance to react.
The Saviors respected you as much as they respected him. And Negan adored every second of it. The only person who could order around the most feared man in Virginia was you.
The only person who could tell him to shut up and actually succeed was you. The only person allowed to touch Lucille without permission was you. The only wife left. The only one he wanted.
“Take half,” Negan called out to his men. “Not all. We ain’t animals.”
A Savior laughed.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Negan pointed Lucille at him.
“The hell’d you say?”
The man immediately looked away.
“Nothing, boss.”
“Damn right.”
You rolled your eyes, Negan caught it.
“Oh, don’t you start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“That look says otherwise.”
“My face naturally looks disappointed when you’re speaking.”
A few nearby Saviors snorted, Negan placed a hand over his heart.
“Jesus Christ. Did you hear that? My own wife.”
“Poor you.”
“The abuse I suffer.”
“Tragic.”
The two of you continued walking. Several Alexandrians watched the exchange with complete confusion.
This wasn’t what they’d expected, this wasn’t how people behaved around Negan.
Nobody joked with Negan.
Nobody teased him.
Nobody called him an idiot and lived.
Except you.
And apparently he loved it.
Rick noticed it too. He stood near the centre of town, watching.
Negan was dangerous, that much was obvious. But whenever his eyes landed on you, something changed. Like the rest of the world disappeared. As if everybody else existed on one level and you existed on another.
Rick hated the man, but he couldn’t ignore what he was seeing. The two of you lived in your own reality.
“Sweetheart!”
Negan’s voice echoed across the street.
You sighed.
“There he goes.”
“Sweetheart!”
“What?”
“WIFEY!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“What, Negan?”
He appeared from inside a house carrying an enormous lava lamp. A huge grin stretched across his face.
“Look at this!”
“It’s a lamp.”
“It is not just a lamp.”
“It is literally a lamp.”
“It’s a cool lamp.”
“It’s hideous.”
Negan looked genuinely offended.
“You wound me.”
“You have terrible taste.”
“You married me.”
“Unfortunately.”
A Savior walking past nearly choked trying not to laugh, Negan pointed at him.
“You shut the hell up.”
Then he turned back to you.
“You want it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“Positive?”
“Negan.”
“Okay, okay. Your loss.”
A few minutes later, he disappeared again. Peace lasted approximately forty seconds.
“WIFE!”
Rick watched from across the street, Michonne looked equally bewildered.
“What are they doing?” she asked quietly.
Rick shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Negan came jogging out of another house. Actually jogging.
Like an excited teenager. In his hands was a leather jacket.
“Look at this beauty!”
You examined it.
“Too small.”
“How do you know?”
“I have eyes.”
Negan held it up.
“Hell, you’re right.”
“See?”
“You are smart.”
“I know.”
He wrapped an arm around your shoulders.
“My wife is smart.”
“I know.”
“My wife is beautiful.”
“I know.”
“My wife could kill most of the people standing here.”
“I know.” You smiled, Negan laughed loudly.
“There she is.”
Rick watched several Alexandrians exchange confused looks. Nobody could understand this relationship. Negan was a tyrant.
A murderer.
A monster.
Yet somehow around you he acted like a man who had won the lottery. Every few minutes he sought you out again.
Showing you books.
Showing you records.
Showing you random decorations.
At one point he found a ridiculous ceramic cat.
“Baby, look.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.”
He held up the cat anyway. You stared at it.
The thing was hideous.
One eye pointed left.
The other pointed right.
Its painted smile looked vaguely threatening. You burst out laughing. Negan immediately looked victorious.
“Aha!”
“It’s awful.”
“You love it.”
“It’s awful.”
“You love it.”
“It’s awful.”
“You laughed.”
Negan raised the cat over his head.
“We’re taking it!”
“No, we’re not.”
“We absolutely are.”
The argument continued down the street. The two of you disappearing around a corner while debating ownership of the world’s ugliest ceramic cat.
Rick watched you go, then glanced toward Michonne.
Neither spoke for a long moment.
Finally, she spoke, “They’re insane.”
Rick nodded.
“Yeah.”
Down the road, Negan’s laughter rang out again. Followed by your voice calling him an idiot. Then more laughter.
Like the apocalypse wasn’t even happening. Like the two of you had somehow built your own world inside the ruins of everyone else’s, and for the first time since Negan had arrived, Rick realised something.
Negan wasn’t looking at Alexandria.
He wasn’t admiring the houses.
Or the food.
Or the supplies.
He was looking for one thing.
His wife.
Because no matter how much he took from Alexandria that day, the thing he valued most was already walking beside him.
Summary: One bottle of whiskey, one night trapped in an abandoned bar, and one very unfortunate confession changed everything between you and Daryl.
The herd had appeared out of nowhere.
One moment you and Daryl had been making your way back towards Alexandria with bags of supplies slung over your shoulders, and the next you had found yourselves staring at dozens upon dozens of walkers slowly spilling across the road ahead, forcing both of you to abandon your route entirely and disappear into the nearest building before you were spotted.
The nearest building turned out to be an old bar. The place had clearly been abandoned for years, with dust coating every surface thickly enough to leave footprints wherever you stepped and broken glass scattered across sections of the floor, but it was secure enough for the night, and after checking every room and barricading the doors as best you could, there was little left to do except wait for the herd to pass.
The sun had already begun to set outside by the time the two of you finally settled down.
You sat on top of the bar counter while Daryl occupied a stool nearby, occasionally glancing through the boarded windows to keep track of the walkers still wandering past outside.
“Think they’ll move on by mornin’,” he muttered eventually.
“I hope so.”
The idea of spending the entire night trapped inside a dusty bar with limited supplies wasn’t exactly appealing.
Although…
You glanced around the room. It could have been worse. At least you weren’t trapped somewhere boring. A few moments later, Daryl opened one of the cabinets behind the counter before pausing.
“Huh.”
You looked up.
“What?”
Instead of answering immediately, he reached inside and pulled something out, your eyes widened.
“No way.”
Daryl held up a bottle of whiskey.
A full bottle.
Somehow.
“Well,” you said slowly, “that’s impressive.”
Daryl examined the label before shrugging.
“Looks alright.”
“It survived over a decade and a half of the apocalypse.”
“Still sealed.”
You laughed.
“Fair point.”
For a moment he seemed uncertain. Then he shrugged again.
“Reckon one drink won’t kill us.”
Half an hour later, you had discovered that one drink had very quickly become several.
Or at least several for you, Daryl barely seemed affected. You, on the other hand, were becoming increasingly aware that standing up sounded like an impossible task.
“You know somethin’?” you asked suddenly.
Daryl glanced over.
“What?”
You pointed vaguely in his direction.
“You’ve got unfair genes.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“My what?”
“Genes.”
“The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You waved the bottle dramatically.
“I’ve had like…” You paused. “A lot.”
“A lot ain’t a number.”
“It is tonight.”
Daryl snorted.Meanwhile you continued pointing accusingly.
“You’ve had almost the same amount and you’re completely fine.”
“Ain’t completely fine.”
“You are.”
“A little buzzed.”
“You are not.”
His mouth twitched. The traitor was trying not to laugh.
“You got no idea what you’re sayin’.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“No ya don’t.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, then immediately forgot what you were suspicious about. Daryl shook his head.
“Jesus.”
“You know what your problem is?”
That finally earned a laugh.
“My problem?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned back slightly.
“Go on then.”
“You don’t know things.”
Daryl blinked.
“What things?”
You pointed dramatically again.
“Things about yourself.”
“The hell does that mean?”
“See? Exactly.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I am.”
At least you could admit that much, the confession seemed to amuse him.
Unfortunately, being drunk also meant your brain had apparently stopped filtering your thoughts. Which became very obvious when your eyes drifted towards him again, and stayed there. Daryl noticed immediately.
“Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?”
You smiled.
Because honestly?
Looking at Daryl had always been one of your favourite activities.
Even before Alexandria.
Even before you knew him properly.
Even before he knew your name.
“You had shorter hair when I first met you.”
Daryl looked caught off guard by the sudden change in subject.
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“My hair.”
“Much shorter.” You nodded enthusiastically.
His hand automatically lifted to touch the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
You sighed. A deep, dramatic sigh. Daryl immediately looked concerned.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“That wasn’t a nothin’ sigh.”
“It was.”
“It wasn’t.”
You pointed at him again.
“D’you know how unfair that was?”
“What was?”
“The hair.”
Daryl stared.
You stared back, then you groaned and dropped your head into your hands.
“God.”
“The hair?” he asked slowly.
“The hair.”
His expression had become deeply confused.
“You liked my hair?”
“Liked?”
“Liked?”
“Yeah?”
“Daryl.”
“What?”
“I nearly died.” For the first time all evening, Daryl genuinely looked speechless. You continued before he could recover. “I mean, there I was trying to survive the apocalypse and then suddenly there you were looking all…”
You waved your hands uselessly.
“Looking all what?”
“Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Seriously?”
“Doin’ my best here.”
You laughed, then laughed harder because somehow that answer was incredibly funny. Daryl rubbed a hand over his face.
“Oh, Lord.”
“No, but seriously.”
“That’s usually when people stop bein’ serious.”
“You’re beautiful.”
The words slipped out so casually that neither of you reacted immediately.
Then silence.
Daryl froze.
You didn’t, because unfortunately your mouth was still working.
“Always have been.”
“Pretty sure men don’t usually like bein’ called beautiful.”
“Well that’s stupid.”
Daryl looked like he had completely forgotten how conversations worked.
You continued.
“Because you are.”
His ears had started turning red.
Very red.
The sight delighted you.
“Aww.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Seriously.”
You grinned.
“No.”
Daryl looked away. You were fairly certain nobody had ever seen Daryl Dixon blush before, the discovery felt monumental.
“You know,” you continued, resting your chin in your hand, “I’ve wanted you for years.”
Daryl nearly choked.
“What?”
“Oh, years.”
Daryl stared. You kept talking, because apparently your drunk brain had no interest whatsoever in self-preservation.
“Since before Alexandria.”
His face somehow became even redder.
“Before Alexandria?”
“Way before.”
“Damn.”
“Yep.”
The next hour passed with you happily rambling through years worth of secret feelings while Daryl sat across from you listening with a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and growing affection that became harder and harder to hide.
You told him everything.
Every stupid crush.
Every moment.
Every embarrassing thought.
By the time exhaustion finally dragged you to sleep on one of the old booths, Daryl was fairly certain he’d just experienced the most surreal night of his life. And despite everything he’d heard. Despite how badly he wanted those words to be true.
He never once took advantage of them, instead he draped his jacket over you and waited for morning.
The next day was horrible.
Not because of the herd.
The herd had moved on.
Not because of the journey home.
That part went smoothly.
No.
The horrible part happened roughly halfway through the walk back to Alexandria when every single memory from the previous night returned.
All at once.
You nearly walked directly into a tree.
“Oh God.”
Daryl glanced over.
“What?”
You stopped moving.
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“You remembered.”
You considered throwing yourself into the nearest river.
“Everythin’?”
“Please stop talking.” You groaned.
Daryl looked suspiciously amused.
The rest of the walk home was unbearable, then somehow things became worse.
Because later that evening, after both of you had unpacked supplies and gone your separate ways, Daryl found you near the gardens.
And asked the question.
The one question. The question you had desperately hoped he would never ask.
“Did ya mean it?”
You froze. Your soul left your body.
“All that stuff ya said.”
You immediately turned around.
“Nope.”
Then walked away.
Quickly.
Very quickly.
The next five days became a disaster.
Every time you saw Daryl approaching, you found somewhere else to be.
If he entered a room, you left.
If he joined a conversation, you discovered an urgent task elsewhere.
At one point you literally hid behind a shed.
Unfortunately Daryl noticed.
Which only made things worse.
Because while you spent the week dying of embarrassment, Daryl spent it reaching a very different conclusion.
He thought you regretted everything.
Thought maybe hearing those feelings spoken aloud had frightened you.
Thought perhaps you’d realised afterwards that you didn’t actually want him.
By the sixth day he had almost convinced himself to give up entirely.
Which was precisely when Carol intervened. Because of course she did. You should have known.
The woman had the patience of a saint until romance became involved, then she transformed into a menace. You had been helping organise supplies when Carol appeared.
“Come with me.”
You immediately became suspicious.
“No.”
“Wasn’t a request.”
Five minutes later she marched you into one of Alexandria’s empty houses.
And Daryl was already inside. Your heart nearly stopped.
“Carol.”
“No.”
“Carol.”
“No.”
“This feels illegal.”
She pointed at both of you.
“Talk.”
Then she left. Actually left.
The door shut.
You considered climbing out a window. Daryl looked equally uncomfortable. For several long moments neither of you spoke.
“Thought ya hated me.” Daryl broke the silence finally.
“What?”
Daryl shrugged awkwardly.
“You’ve been avoidin’ me all week.”
The genuine pain in his voice immediately crushed your embarrassment under a wave of guilt.
“Daryl.”
“S’alright.”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’ve been hidin’ behind buildings.”
“Yeah.”
“I know.”
Daryl’s mouth twitched slightly.
Heat flooded your face.
“Oh my God.”
Suddenly you understood how ridiculous you’d been. All week you’d been running away because you were embarrassed. Meanwhile Daryl had been sitting there thinking you hated him.
“Daryl.”
“What?”
You took a deep breath, then finally forced yourself to say it.
“I wasn’t avoiding you because I regretted confessing to you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
You covered your face.
“Because I wanted to die.”
That finally earned a laugh. A real laugh. You pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“Sorry.”
“You are not sorry.”
„No, I’m really not.”
You groaned dramatically, then finally lowered your hands.
“Daryl.”
“Yeah?”
You swallowed.
And this time, there was no alcohol to blame.
No whiskey.
No drunken confidence.
No excuses.
Just honesty.
“Everything I said that night was true.”
The smile disappeared from his face. Not because he was upset. Because suddenly the moment became real.
“You mean that?”
“Every word.”
For a second Daryl simply looked at you, then he stepped closer. Close enough that your heart immediately started racing.
“You liked the short hair that much, huh?”
“That is what you took from this?”
His grin appeared.
Small.
Warm.
Beautiful.
“Maybe.”
You shook your head. Completely unbelievable. And somehow still your favourite person in the world.
“I love you, idiot.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them and this time you didn’t run.
Daryl’s eyes widened slightly.
Then softened and before you could become embarrassed all over again, his hand rested against your cheek.
“Love you too.”
The kiss that followed felt long overdue, worth every second of embarrassment that had come before it.
And somewhere across Alexandria, Carol was undoubtedly feeling very pleased with herself.
Summary: You were absolutely not in love with Daryl Dixon. At least, that was the story you kept telling yourself.
The problem with Carol was that she never knew when to leave things alone.
Actually, that's a lie.
Carol knew exactly when to leave things alone, she simply chose not to.
Which was how you found yourself trapped on the porch outside her house one afternoon while she sat beside you with a cup of tea and the kind of smug expression that immediately made you suspicious.
“What?” you asked.
Carol took a slow sip of her tea.
“Nothin’.”
“You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that means you’re about to make my life difficult.”
Carol smiled.
“There it is.” You groaned immediately. “Oh God.”
“You know,” Carol began, “Daryl was looking for you earlier.”
Your heart betrayed you instantly, the tiny leap in your chest happened before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, Carol noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“Interesting.”
“Stop.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Carol laughed before settling back into her chair. For a few moments she didn't say anything else, and you foolishly allowed yourself to believe the subject had been dropped.
Then Carol ruined everything.
“You’ve got a crush on him.”
You nearly choked on your tea.
“No, I don’t.”
Carol raised one eyebrow.
The gesture alone somehow conveyed years of disbelief.
“I don’t.”
“Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“Mhm.”
You pointed accusingly at her.
“That is not a response.”
“It’s the only response necessary.”
You groaned dramatically and dropped your head into your hands.
“Carol.”
“What?”
“I do not have a crush on Daryl.”
The older woman hummed.
“Right.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course.”
“Carol.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
She looked completely unconvinced.
You stared at her, she stared back.
The silence dragged on for several seconds.
“Oh, come on.”
Carol burst out laughing.
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately she was right. You sighed heavily before looking out across Alexandria’s streets, watching people move between houses while children played nearby.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Carol said very casually:
“So why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Why don’t you have a crush on him?”
The question caught you off guard.
“I…”
You stopped.
Because honestly? You had no good answer.
Carol waited patiently, you rolled your eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
“Answer the question.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Then opened it again.
“You know what?”
Carol smiled, that was never a good sign.
“What?”
You pointed vaguely towards the street.
“Fine. Maybe I do.”
“I knew it.”
“Don’t celebrate yet.”
“Oh, I’m celebrating.”
“Carol.”
She waved for you to continue.
“Look around.”
“What am I looking at?”
“The world.”
Carol blinked.
“The world.”
“Yes.”
She looked confused.
You laughed despite yourself.
“It’s the apocalypse.”
Carol stared.
You stared back.
“It is,” she agreed eventually.
“And somehow, somehow in the middle of all this, Daryl Dixon exists.”
Carol immediately started smiling again.
“Oh, this is gonna be good.”
You ignored her.
“No, seriously. Look at him.”
Carol snorted.
“I unfortunately do every day.”
“He’s ridiculous.”
“How?”
You threw your hands into the air.
“How isn’t he?”
“Oh, keep going.”
You absolutely should have stopped, but instead you found yourself talking.
Maybe because it was Carol. Maybe because keeping all these feelings inside had become exhausting. Or maybe because after so long, denying them felt pointless.
“He’s loyal.”
“True.”
“He’s protective.”
“Also true.”
“He’s brave.”
“Mhm.”
“He’s capable.”
“Very.”
“He’d literally throw himself in front of a walker for someone he cares about.”
“Yeah.”
“And have you seen him?”
That made her laugh again.
“Oh my God.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“You sound serious.”
“I am serious.”
You pointed emphatically.
“The man is beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Daryl Dixon?”
“Especially Daryl Dixon.”
She looked seconds away from falling out of her chair. You continued anyway.
“Look at him. He’s all broad shoulders and blue eyes and that stupid hair and…” You groaned dramatically. “It’s not fair.”
Carol was laughing so hard tears had started gathering in her eyes.
Meanwhile, hidden just around the corner of the house with an armful of firewood balanced against his chest, Daryl had completely stopped moving.
He had originally been looking for Carol. Now he was questioning every decision he had ever made.
His face felt hot.
Very hot.
Had you just called him beautiful?
Daryl genuinely considered turning around and walking directly into the woods. Instead, he stood there frozen while your voice continued to float across the porch.
“Honestly, before the apocalypse he’d have been perfect.”
Carol raised an eyebrow.
“Before?”
“After too.”
“Oh?”
“Absolutely.” The smile on your face softened. “He’s everything anyone could ever want.”
Something in Daryl’s chest nearly stopped working.
“He takes care of people. He protects everyone. He never asks for anything in return. He’s strong, he’s kind even when he pretends he isn’t, and honestly, if I wasn’t already completely doomed, watching him carry firewood would probably do it.”
Carol made a strangled noise, which made you laugh.
“I’m serious.”
Daryl abruptly turned around and left before he accidentally heard anything else and died on the spot.
The next morning was somehow worse.
Because now Daryl knew.
Every time he saw you smiling at him, he remembered.
Every time you spoke to him, he remembered.
Every single time you looked at him, he remembered you calling him beautiful.
It was torture.
Wonderful, confusing torture.
Which was probably why he agreed so quickly when Aaron suggested the two of you take the next supply run together.
Daryl wanted answers or maybe he just wanted an excuse to spend time with you.
Possibly both.
The drive passed surprisingly comfortably, filled with easy conversation and occasional teasing whenever you caught him staring.
By midday, the two of you were searching through a small hardware store several miles from Alexandria.
Everything remained quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
The crash came from somewhere deeper inside the building.
Then another.
You immediately grabbed your knife.
Daryl raised his crossbow.
A second later walkers emerged from the back storage area.
“Got company,” he muttered.
The first walker reached you seconds later.
Instinct took over.
You stepped aside smoothly before driving your knife through its skull and shoving the corpse away. Besides you, Daryl was already moving.
And unfortunately for your dignity, watching Daryl fight was genuinely one of your favourite things.
Not because violence itself interested you.
Because Daryl looked completely in his element.
Confident.
Capable.
Dangerous.
The kind of man who could survive anything.
One walker lunged.
Daryl sidestepped effortlessly before burying his knife in its skull.
Another followed.
Same result.
You found yourself staring.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the time the last walker hit the floor, you had spent more time watching Daryl than helping.
Daryl wiped blood from his knife before glancing towards you.
Immediately catching you staring. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
Your brain chose violence.
“No.”
Daryl raised an eyebrow.
“You keep starin’.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“You were killing walkers.”
“Yeah.”
You immediately regretted speaking. Because the next words escaped before you could stop them.
“God, that’s attractive.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Daryl froze.
You froze.
The entire universe froze.
“Oh no.”
Daryl blinked.
“Oh no?” he repeated.
You covered your face.
“Oh no.”
The smile threatening his mouth became impossible to hide.
“Did ya just…”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
You groaned into your hands.
“This is awful.”
Daryl looked dangerously amused now. Which somehow made everything worse.
“You think killin’ walkers is attractive?”
“I think you are attractive.”
The confession slipped out accidentally. You stared at him in horror.
Daryl stared back.
“Good.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His expression softened. Because suddenly he wasn’t teasing anymore.
“Dunno if ya noticed, but I’ve been kinda stuck on you for a while.”
“A while?”
“A long while.”
“You like me?”
“You called me beautiful.”
Your entire soul left your body.
“Oh my God.”
“Was my favourite part.”
You wanted to disappear, but instead Daryl stepped closer. Close enough that your heart immediately started hammering.
“You really think I’m perfect?”
You buried your face in your hands.
“I’m never recovering from this.”
Daryl gently pulled your hands away. The smile on his face was softer now.
“You ain’t gotta.”
You gave it all a thought, and decided to go with it. What else did you have to lose anyway?
“I meant every word.”
Daryl’s expression changed instantly. All teasing disappeared, leaving only something honest. Something that looked suspiciously like love.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Yeah.”
The smile that appeared on his face was small but real.
A second later ,he cupped your cheek gently before leaning down and kissing you.
The kiss felt warm, soft and long overdue, and by the time you finally pulled apart, neither of you could stop smiling.
“So,” you spoke first.
“So.”
“You overheard everything, didn’t you?”
Daryl immediately looked guilty.
“Daryl.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“…Maybe.”
“Oh my God.”
A laugh escaped him. An actual laugh. And honestly?
That alone was worth every second of embarrassment.
Even if Carol was absolutely going to hold this over your head for the rest of your life.
At least now you finally had the man you’d been hopelessly in love with all along.
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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.
Part II
~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!
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