#fdb

This stupid faggot is wrecking me bro </3

bonus!! my piercing headcanons (Its just my ideal set up but shh im TOTALLY not imprinting at all)

A/n: forcing myself to write

The sun is low and the air smells like grill smoke, sunscreen, and juice boxes.

There’s watermelon juice on your toddler’s cheeks. Grass stains on your daughter’s knees. And Erik?

Erik’s squatting in front of the cooler, shirtless, tattoos glowing gold under the last rays of light, his back flexing as he digs for the one juice pouch your daughter insists is the “only good one.”

You watch from the porch with your arms wrapped around the littlest one, bouncing her gently on your hip while she hums tunelessly and tries to smear her sticky hands into your lip gloss.

“I found it!” Erik calls, standing and holding up the strawberry kiwi juice like a trophy.

Your daughter squeals and runs full-speed toward him, bare feet slapping the grass. “Daddy! Fireworks soon?!”

“Damn right,” he grins, squatting again to meet her level. “Grandpa gonna light the fireworks. Wanna sit on my shoulders so you can see?”

She gasps like he offered her the moon, you swore you saw hearts in her eyes.

“Yes please yes please yes please—”

He laughs and lifts her with ease, setting her on his broad shoulders like she weighs nothing. Her arms wrap around his forehead. Her fingers tangle in his hair.

You swear your ovaries detonate right there.

“Comfy up there, princess?” he asks.

She giggles. “I can see everything!”

“Good,” he smirks. “I like when my girls sit on my shoulders.”

Your brows lift. Oh?

He catches your expression.

That wicked little glint in his eye flares, a look you've seen all to many times.

Then he mutters just loud enough for you to hear:

“You can have a turn later, mama. Might look a little different, though.”

Your stomach drops—and your thighs squeeze together instinctively. You shoot him a look, but he’s already turning toward the yard, your daughter squealing with joy as she commands him like a parade float.

“Daddy go faster!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You watch them—the way she clings to him like he’s her anchor, the way he pretends to stumble just to make her laugh, his deep chuckle rumbling through the warm night air.

The baby curls against your chest and yawns.

Fireworks crack once in the distance.

And for a moment, it’s perfect.

Your girls.

Your man.

Your home.

Erik catches your eyes across the lawn—his daughter on his shoulders, his smirk just for you—and mouths, “Later.”

You shake your head, lips twitching.