#-so i 'inherited' a lot of the old ways and stuff)

[supremefloof]

some tbhx speculation post ep 10

/throwing stuff at the wall after post ep 10. spoilers obviously. also for ep 11 preview. about Trust and where our heroes get it, villains, X.

point 1:

we have to talk about lucky cyan's trust value. the people on the plane gave her trust to survive/ her luck powers. so the elephant in the room:

CAN DEAD PEOPLE STILL GIVE YOU TRUST?

it's really unclear. the main point in favor of this is that Cyan still has luck at the orphanage, and says her TV has always been high as long as she can remember which wouldn't be possible if trust vanishes when your believers die.

"but Cyan loses all her trust in episode 9!" well. actually it looks like a zero at first glance but it could actually be a really fucked up number nine. when put next to other "zeroes" in the show's sadistic special font it looks notably different. like a Nice's tower floor situation from episode one where that was somehow a 15.

The main thing AGAINST this: there were definitely more than nine people on that plane! maybe Lucky Cyan's trust vanished as the plane crash victims died, but by then they were already on the ground? but that seems jank.

anyways, what I really wanted to say: If dead people's Trust stays after they die, then...

wouldn't the best way to guarantee your power be to gain a ton of trust and then kill all of your followers?

this could be the reason for the plane crash; maybe a hero had a lot of followers on this plane and wanted to keep that trust forever.

this could be Zero's motivation. this is what I immediately thought of.

what the fuck this could even be X's motivation. idk we don't know anything about him. maybe he killed nice for this idk

point 2:

if Fear has only been discovered in year 36, that means that either the powers of villains like Magic Shadow or whoever the hell rat king is (esoul eps) come from Trust, or have unknown sources of fear that nobody discovered was fear.

The only consistent characteristics we've seen of fear is that it is black and makes you act weird and irrational.

so, L0's old boss: black goop, confirmed fear. the orphanage: zombies, black growths, confirmed fear.

Wreck...black sword slivers/beams? maybe fear? who knows? maybe only fear after he learns about Nice's death. in fact, it could be Lin Ling's fear that triggers it! the power of a nemesis might at least initially be from trust, funnily enough.

a little ghostblade what if - we've heard mentions of the "Aether laboratory" along with the idea of Fear. Ghostblade seems to have been experimented on. What if Ghostblade is an attempt to make a Hero that is immune to Fear?

point 3:

circling back to OG Nice's death: it's becoming apparent a question we need to ask is where does trust go after death and what happens to it?

Lin Ling "inherited" trust value from Nice. two ways I think of it: 1. scooped Nice's trust off his corpse, like e-soul. how does that work. 2. redirected all of nice's fans at himself, quickly replacing Nice.

E-soul's Trust merged due to there being two e-souls and one died. please note that this merge happened naturally without the consent of fans.

so where does lucky cyan's trust come from, again.

maybe the series will explore different ways of gaining trust for each hero? a bit crack but maybe even in layers of absurdity. like X is the most jank way so he's the finale (btw thank you @elowhinn for pointing out he keeps the tie clip. maybe he just hacked being X by cosplaying as X and having no name lmao), Ahu being the next jankiest way since he's a dog so he gets the second to last ep...

IF nice is alive somehow...what's up with his trust value now? it's not like people stopped believing Nice had powers. there are still Nice fans. they're just also lin ling fans now. bringing up this due to the theory that the hand in kontinuum is nice's hand. and cope.

[addicted-to-the-knife]

I finally had the chance to watch the Boston panel.

and I'm starting to think that a lot of you either haven't watched it yourselves, or were so set on specific opinions you personally have, while also having clear expectations of what their answers will be, that with their answers (or what are talked about as their answers) made you so unhappy that now you're just bashing them; especially Hugh.

why, though? none of the things I've seen people complain about were actually said like that or fully implied. so... what? doesn't make sense to me why some of you are so upset about this panel. it was so much fun and just lighthearted entertainment. panels like that are the reason these things exist and are usually so much fun in the first place.

[earlgraytay]

So, you've probably all seen this post going around, about how The Chuds Want Gentleman's Clubs (but can't afford to go to the things called "gentlemen's clubs" today, so wouldn't have been able to in the past either). And I hate to say it, but that post isn't accurate.

The things we call "gentlemen's clubs" today and the things that were called "gentleman's clubs" in the past are not the same thing; the one is descended from the other, but they used to be a lot more common and served a purpose that they don't really serve anymore.

The modern equivalent of the historical gentleman's club isn't the thing currently called a gentleman's club; it's the premium airport lounge. And by losing the concept for all but the turbo-rich, I think we genuinely have lost something! Let me explain.

(NOTA BENE: This is mostly about England and from about 1880-1930, and most of my experience with this is from fiction written in that era. I know enough to know what I don't know, but I also know menswear guy is wrong about this.)

So- gentlemen's clubs started in *wiggles hands* the late 1700s, and mostly served a particular purpose: they were places you could stay in a city if you mostly lived in the country, instead of staying in lodgings or owning your own place. Finding a place to stay in London was kind of a misery at the best of times, and owning your own house in Town wasn't practical for a lot of people, even rich people. If you were, say, a young man, just starting out in life, and you hadn't inherited your father's wealth but also weren't set up to live on your own? Having a place you were guaranteed to be able to stay was a fucking godsend. And as time went on, even people who lived in London most of the time started joining clubs, because they served another important purpose- they were a place you could go if you didn't particularly want to be at home, for whatever reason.

The way that historical gentlemen's clubs worked is, you got recommended to the club by a friend who was a member, you paid dues to the club, and in exchange, you'd get to use the club's facilities. * Most gentlemen's clubs had, at minimum, a dining room (with waitstaff, natch), a library, a couple of nice places to sit and hang out, a game room, and a bar. Many of them also had rooms you could sleep in overnight, fitness equipment, or stuff related to the club members' interests. Most of them had a room or two where you could invite friends who weren't part of your club and spend time with them. In the era where phones were a thing, a lot of them had a phone. You could write letters there and get your mail sent there.

Here's the thing: in the period I know best, gentlemen's clubs weren't just for the turbo-rich. They were the province of rich guys, yes- you had to be a 'gentleman' and know the right people to get in. But men who were doctor/lawyer/software-developer rich were most likely members of a gentlemen's club. Anyone who was rich enough to travel regularly was part of at least one club, because having somewhere to crash when you were going between (say) London and Delhi and back again was worth the cost.

Most gentlemen's clubs were owned by their members- not an outside corporate body. The club leaders were elected, usually by a small committee.

And a lot of gentlemen's clubs founded around specific interests, as time went on. There were gentlemen's clubs specifically for Guys Who Were Really Into Radio. There were clubs specifically for men who spent a lot of time traveling. There were clubs specifically for dudes who wanted to talk your ear off and clubs for old dudes who mostly wanted to nod off in their chairs and talk about The War and clubs for dudes who did not want to be percieved at all.

There were clubs for men who were really into science, or the arts, or sports. And one perk of being in a club like this is that you had access to equipment that you might not have been able to buy on your own. You didn't have to shell out for an entire library of scientific and medical books; you could go to your club and read in the library there. If your club had, say, an art studio, you could go paint at your club and not have to keep a studio space of your own.

There were gentlemen's clubs specifically oriented around specific political or social views. There were socialist clubs. (And a lot of them admitted women, which was !!!SCANDALOUS!!!) Like, they were still the province of goddamn rich people, there were a lot of trust fund baby socialists and not many working people, but there were socialist social clubs.

...I don't want to pretend that gentlemen's clubs were some kind of idyllic haven. 99% of these clubs were For Men, and For The Right Sort Of Men at that; if you didn't have a friend who was a member, or you weren't "respectable" enough, you didn't get to join. There's a reason that most of these clubs are gone now. Part of the point was excluding the Wrong Sort of People, and that became gauche over time. After a certain point, being part of a club became a thing for stodgy, out-of-touch rich men- not just "men who happened to have enough money to be part of a club"- and so most of the men who could join one didn't, and people stopped forming new ones. Only Old Money assholes (who will continue to do what they've always done, current trends be damned) keep the concept alive.

But like... the thing that replaced gentlemen's clubs for 99% of the people who would have had one a hundred years ago... is the premium airport lounge, and the premium gym membership, and the ~coworking hub~.** Anyone can join, yeah, as long as they're able to pay. You pay a corporation a chunk of money for similar amenities, and the amenities are ... fine? But because the entity is driven by profit, most of the money you're paying them goes into running their other business concerns and paying their CEOs a fat paycheck.

I think... as exclusionary as gentlemen's clubs were back in the day, there's the seed of a good idea there. I think the guys who wish they were still an attainable thing for a middle-class person have a point, and I wish we could inject some fucking nuance into this conversation.

A community-owned space that gives you a place to crash when you need one, has community-owned resources for its members, and isn't beholden to a corporation is a good thing. Third spaces that don't have to turn a profit are a damn good thing.

At the end of the day, my politics are 'everyone should get to have the kind of luxuries that were historically reserved for the rich'. Everyone should get to have the best life has to offer- leisure, beauty, good craftsmanship, and community. And so, you know, if this kind of community space sounds like a thing you'd like to have, maybe it's something you could work towards creating, too.

*TBF, this is still how they work today! But the networks are much smaller.

**I do find it very funny that apparently one of the biggest problems facing the few remaining Actual Gentlemen's Clubs (TM) is that people are trying to use their space to telework-- a lot of them are trying to ban laptops and business talk to "keep the club's character" (read: "we're too rich to have to work here").

[pinkiemachine]

Currently thinking about the way the BatFamily is perceived by the tabloids. Like yeah, the Wayne family, it’s one of the richest families in America, but they keep to themselves mostly, no one really knows any intimate details about them, they’re more locally famous than anything. Then Thomas and Martha come along, and they’re regarded as kind-hearted, good natured people by most, heavily involved with charity work, so when they die so suddenly, it makes national news. A massive family fortune and the rights to a major corporation have been left in the hands of an eight-year-old? But thanks to people like Alfred, the press isn’t able to get close to Bruce all that much, and the story mostly dies after that… until Bruce goes off to college and gets into his first series of scandals, and everyone’s thinking, “oh no, the good parents died and we’re left with their idiot son who’ll probably squander the family fortune and make a mess of the company.” Then he straight up disappears??? Most common theory is that the Wayne Estate forced him to lay low for a while to keep him from ruining the family image any further, or he’s in rehab, or something to that effect. Then when he comes back a few years later, it’s more of the same wild-child act. Eccentric man being eccentric. The tabloids eat it up.

Dick Grayson, I feel, wouldn’t get as much media attention as others in this list overall. The initial adoption case gets printed everywhere, naturally—“Play-Boy Bruce Wayne Looking to Adopt?” Nobody likes the look of it, but Bruce swears he has no ill intentions and will do everything in his power to care for the boy, and he makes good on that promise, so… after the initial shock wears off, the tabloids wind up with not a lot to work with. Dick is protected by people like Bruce and Alfred, he generally doesn’t do anything in public that might count as a scandal, and when he’s flown the coup, he goes on to do charity work mostly. All good stuff, but as far as the gossip columnists are concerned, he’s not worth their time.

Jason is an interesting case, because when his adoption was pending, I imagine everyone sat up and said, “wait, didn’t we already do this?” There are a few raised eyebrows at Bruce adopting *another* orphan, but hey, maybe the guy got lonely after Dick moved away? It’s certainly grounds for a potentially interesting story, but once again, the paparazzi are foiled in their attempts to dig up some juicy dirt. Just a fight at Gotham Academy, maybe, and a rumour or two about Bruce developing a strange new coping mechanism, and not much else. When Jason dies, it’s sad, but most people don’t really care. Either they got confused and thought, “wait, there was a second adopted son of Bruce Wayne?” or they went, “I knew something bad would come of that Bruce Wayne’s odd behaviour.” Either way, they didn’t have a lot of time to get to know Jason, so his death passes and then people forget.

After that, Timothy Drake, son of another famous wealthy person in Gotham, loses his parents and gets adopted by Bruce. Now this one spreads by word of mouth among the socialites before the tabloids get their hands on it, and it generally sounds like this, “The Waynes and the Drakes were very close, it’s no wonder—with Bruce’s history and his connection to them—that he would open his home to Timothy.” Things don’t really start picking up until Bruce starts considering him for Wayne Enterprises and bringing him to meetings and showing him the ropes. That’s when the cameras come out and everyone’s suddenly very interested in this young man. Will he inherit the fortune? The company? He’s young, he’s handsome, he could be getting the keys to the Wayne kingdom, it’s all very exciting.

Then Damian comes along and it’s at that exact moment that the Secret Love Child rumours go flying. Like, Bruce is up to four kids who all came out of nowhere as far as the general public is concerned, and they all kinda look like him. It does make sense—everyone knows he was a play boy back in the day—the ages of the kids make perfect sense too—so the next few news cycles are just everyone trying to guess who the “mothers” are. (Damian also makes a name for himself by not being able to hold his tongue in front of the press and generally being a little scandal generator, namely the first time he broke a reporter’s hand… yeah…)

Then Jason comes back, and he’s going straight to the reporters, looking into the cameras, and saying, “the details of my death were greatly exaggerated” just to annoy to Bruce, and now there’s even more confusion and speculation. “Wait, who’s Jason?” “Jason was alive this whole time?” “They pretended Jason was dead?!” “What is going on at Wayne Manor???”

Cass arriving was what compounded the newest popular theory: Wayne Manor was hiding a cult. They don’t know what kind; they don’t know what’s going on inside of there; they don’t know why Bruce is obsessed with adopting all these kids, but it’s definitely some kind of cult. Several investigations of the estate have been made and Bruce has made several statements assuring the people that there is no cult. (But no one believes him or the reports.)

Duke just made it worse. Suddenly, people are becoming afraid to leave their kids alone near Wayne Enterprises and every time Bruce does anything, everyone’s expecting him to suddenly debut another adopted child.

Now, over time, there will be lots and lots of theories thrown around about the family, but the mainstream media will likely forget the cult speculation after a while, if things appear to be relatively normal and there’s no drama about the Waynes they can stir up. However, they still keep tabs on all the members. They don’t know if, where, or when something’s gonna happen, but something’s gotta happen sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.

Any other fun tidbits you would add? Anything I missed?

[majikkulu]

˙˖   ࿔   WHAT'S THE SOUTH NODE PERSONA CHART AND HOW DOES PLUTO FIT IN?  ⚘ ˙˖  

⤷   your  south  node  persona  chart  is  kind  of  like  a  peek  into  your  past  life.  it  shows  who  you  were,  the  lessons  you  didn’t  quite  get  in  the  last  round,  and  any  old  patterns  that  might  still  be  sticking  with  you  now.  ˚.  ᵎᵎ

⤷   we’re  gonna  explore  how  PLUTO  might  give  us  some  clues  about  how  you  passed  away  in  your  past  life.  i’ve  always  found  death  and  reincarnation  super  fascinating,  so  i  figured  this  would  be  an  interesting  topic  to  unpack.˚.  ᵎᵎ

⤷   pluto  is  the  planet  of  death,  rebirth,  and  karma,  so  it's  a  major  player  in  past-life  astrology.  i've  seen  how  strongly  it  resonates  not  just  in  my  own  chart  but  also  in  readings  i’ve  done  for  others.  of  course,  aspects  can  modify  how  it  shows  up,  so  keep  that  in  mind.˚.     ᵎᵎ

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 1H ﹑ ﹒ your  past  life  probably  ended  in  a  really  intense  or  sudden  way.  something  violent  or  deeply  personal.  you  might’ve  been  someone  who  stood  out  a  lot...  like  people  knew  who  you  were.  maybe  you  had  power,  status,  attention  and  that  visibility  made  you  a  target.  betrayal,  revenge,  or  even  a  public  takedown  could’ve  been  involved.  there’s  also  this  warrior  vibe  here,  like  you  were  thrown  into  dangerous  situations  or  lived  a  life  where  conflict  was  constant,  and  that  might’ve  led  to  your  death  too.  you  might’ve  been  someone  whose  identity  challenged  others  like  just  being  yourself  rubbed  people  the  wrong  way.  maybe  your  body  or  your  health  gave  out  from  all  the  pressure,  or  you  were  physically  harmed  because  of  who  you  were.  and  now  that  energy  kinda  lingers.  you  might  feel  lowkey  anxious  about  being  too  seen  or  too  open.  maybe  you’re  super  aware  of  how  much  space  you  take  up  or  how  others  perceive  you.  power  struggles  could  come  up  a  lot,  especially  when  it  feels  like  people  are  trying  to  control  you  or  define  who  you  are.  there  might  be  this  hidden  fear  that  visibility  =  danger,  so  you’re  constantly  learning  how  to  protect  your  energy  and  stand  your  ground  without  losing  yourself.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 2H ﹑ ﹒ your  past-life  death  had  a  lot  to  do  with  money,  survival,  or  your  sense  of  security.  you  might’ve  died  poor  like  truly  struggling,  maybe  from  starvation  or  being  completely  deprived  of  the  basics.  or,  plot  twist:  maybe  you  had  a  lot,  like  a  lot  of  wealth…  but  that’s  what  got  you  in  trouble.  betrayal,  greed,  someone  wanting  what  you  had.  it  could’ve  ended  messy.  there’s  also  a  vibe  of  being  used.  like  maybe  you  were  forced  to  work,  controlled,  or  treated  like  property.  it’s  even  possible  someone  hurt  you  for  your  money,  inheritance  drama,  stolen  riches,  maybe  even  poisoning.  either  way,  your  soul  probably  left  that  life  with  a  deep  imprint  of  loss,  instability,  and  fear  around  material  things.  in  this  life,  you  might  not  totally  know  why,  but  money  stuff  hits  different.  maybe  you  stress  over  finances  more  than  most,  or  you  just  hate  the  idea  of  relying  on  others  for  anything.  your  stuff  is  super  sacred  to  you.  sharing  can  feel  scary,  like  if  you’re  not  careful,  something  might  be  taken  from  you  again.  there  might  be  this  lowkey  fear  of  being  used  or  losing  everything.  so  now,  you’re  learning  how  to  feel  safe,  secure,  and  abundant  without  clinging  too  tight.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 3H ﹑ ﹒ this  one’s  intense.  with  pluto  sitting  in  your  3rd  house  of  the  south  node  persona  chart,  your  past-life  death  probably  had  a  lot  to  do  with  your  voice,  your  thoughts,  or  the  information  you  carried.  maybe  you  spoke  out  about  something  people  didn’t  want  to  hear.  a  truth  that  ruffled  feathers,  exposed  secrets,  or  challenged  authority.  and  for  that,  you  could’ve  been  silenced…  maybe  even  punished  or  executed  just  for  speaking.  there’s  this  sense  that  your  words  were  powerful.  too  powerful  for  the  time  you  were  in.  you  might’ve  been  seen  as  rebellious,  unhinged,  or  even  dangerous  just  for  thinking  differently.  for  some,  there’s  also  a  connection  to  travel  like  dying  during  a  journey,  in  an  accident,  or  while  trying  to  deliver  a  message.  conflict  with  siblings  or  people  close  to  you  might’ve  played  a  role  too…  betrayal  could’ve  come  from  someone  you  trusted.  and  in  this  life  that  fear  of  speaking  up  might  still  linger.  maybe  you  hesitate  before  saying  what’s  really  on  your  mind,  or  feel  like  people  might  twist  your  words.  you  might  keep  secrets  close,  or  feel  super  protective  over  your  thoughts  and  ideas.  there  could  be  this  unshakable  feeling  that  talking  too  much,  or  trusting  the  wrong  person,  could  somehow  backfire.  but  the  beauty  of  it  is.  you’re  here  to  reclaim  your  voice.  this  time  around,  you’re  learning  it’s  safe  to  speak,  to  question,  and  to  be  heard.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 4H ﹑ ﹒ this  placement  is  deep  and  a  little  haunting.  if  you  have  pluto  in  the  4th  house  of  your  south  node  persona  chart,  it  suggests  your  past-life  death  might’ve  happened  in  your  own  home.  maybe  it  was  something  sudden  or  tragic,  like  a  fire,  a  break-in,  or  even  something  darker…  like  family  betrayal.  there’s  a  strong  link  to  generational  stuff  here  too  like  ancestral  trauma  or  karmic  cycles  passed  down  through  the  bloodline.  your  death  might’ve  been  part  of  that  bigger  pattern,  tied  to  pain  that  ran  deep  in  the  family.  some  people  with  this  placement  may  have  died  really  young,  maybe  due  to  illness,  an  accident,  or  just  being  in  the  wrong  place  at  the  wrong  time.  and  for  many,  home  wasn’t  a  safe  space.  it  might’ve  felt  more  like  a  trap,  a  battlefield,  or  a  place  where  love  was  conditional.  in  this  lifetime,  that  energy  can  still  hang  in  the  background.  maybe  you’ve  felt  like  the  black  sheep,  or  like  you  never  fully  belonged  where  you  came  from.  home  might  feel  distant,  hard  to  create,  or  even  hard  to  define.  family  dynamics  could  be  messy,  secretive,  or  emotionally  charged  like  there’s  always  something  under  the  surface  no  one  wants  to  talk.  about.you’re  not  doomed  to  repeat  the  past.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 5H ﹑ ﹒ this  placement  is  dramatic  in  the  deepest  sense  not  just  performance,  but  passion,  heartbreak,  and  the  kind  of  intensity  that  leaves  a  soul  echo.  in  a  past  life,  you  may  have  died  because  of  love.  not  just  any  love,  but  one  that  stirred  up  jealousy,  betrayal,  or  pushed  against  the  rules.  think  forbidden  romance,  scandal,  or  even  execution  for  loving  someone  you  weren’t  “supposed”  to.  for  others,  the  story  leans  toward  risk,  gambling,  thrill-chasing,  or  high-stakes  choices  that  ended  badly.  maybe  you  lost  it  all  in  a  single  moment…  maybe  you  were  the  kind  of  person  who  lived  on  the  edge  and  eventually  fell  over  it.  some  souls  with  this  placement  carry  memories  of  dying  in  childbirth,  a  final  act  of  giving  life  that  came  at  the  cost  of  your  own.  and  for  a  few,  there’s  this  almost  theatrical  energy  like  you  died  onstage,  mid-performance,  or  in  the  middle  of  a  moment  so  intense  it  burned  itself  into  your  soul  memory.  loud,  public,  emotional.  in  this  life,  you  might  feel  that  lingering  caution  when  it  comes  to  love,  joy,  or  creativity.  like  something  in  you  wants  to  go  all  in.  fall  wildly  in  love,  pour  your  soul  into  your  art  but  there’s  this  echo  of  danger  attached  to  pleasure.  a  fear  that  if  you  let  yourself  feel  too  much,  it’ll  end  in  pain.  you  may  struggle  to  fully  express  yourself,  wrestle  with  creative  blocks,  or  feel  nervous  being  seen.  but  this  time  around,  your  power  lies  in  reclaiming  joy.  healing  the  part  of  you  that  learned  passion  =  punishment.  you're  here  to  find  safe  love,  fearless  expression,  and  pleasure  that  doesn’t  have  to  cost  you  everything.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 6H ﹑ ﹒ your  past  life  likely  ended  not  in  one  swift  blow,  but  slowly.  a  quiet  unraveling  of  the  body.  you  may  have  died  from  illness,  exhaustion,  or  the  kind  of  suffering  that  wears  a  person  down  over  time.  maybe  it  was  disease,  maybe  poison.  something  that  crept  in  silently.  there’s  even  a  sense  that  someone  else  may  have  played  a  role…  perhaps  unknowingly,  or  with  intent.  you  may  have  worked  in  service  like  medicine,  battlefields,  or  grueling  labor.  environments  that  asked  too  much  of  your  body  and  spirit,  until  you  were  used  up.  maybe  no  one  even  noticed  how  much  you  gave…  or  how  much  it  cost  you.  in  this  lifetime,  that  memory  lives  in  your  bones.  you  might  carry  a  quiet  fear  around  your  health.  hyper-aware  of  every  ache,  every  sign,  every  shift  in  energy.  you  might  work  too  hard,  too  long,  never  resting  enough…  as  if  some  part  of  you  still  believes  rest  =  danger  or  failure  =  death.  perfectionism  could  be  your  armor.  you  may  feel  safest  when  you're  useful,  needed,  or  silently  suffering  through  your  own  expectations.  but  you're  not  here  to  prove  yourself.  you're  here  to  heal   yourself,  and  others.  your  soul  remembers  how  to  care,  how  to  nurture,  how  to  bring  light  into  dark  places.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 7H ﹑ ﹒ love  may  have  been  the  thing  that  ended  you. a  past-life  partner  or  someone  you  trusted,  perhaps  even  adored.  may  have  been  the  very  person  who  brought  about  your  final  breath.  maybe  it  was  jealousy.  maybe  betrayal.  maybe  the  kind  of  love  that  burns  too  bright  and  then  destroys  everything  in  its  path.  this  placement  speaks  of  entanglements  that  weren’t  soft,  but  sharp.  perhaps  you  died  in  a  duel  over  honor,  or  drank  from  a  cup  you  didn’t  know  was  poisoned.  perhaps  you  were  punished  simply  for  choosing  the  “wrong”  person  or  for  daring  to  love  at  all.  marriage  in  that  life  may  have  felt  like  a  trap.  arranged,  political,  or  unbearably  controlling.  love  was  never  simple.  never  safe.  in  this  lifetime,  your  soul  flinches  at  closeness.  you  may  crave  deep  connection  but  fear  the  cost.  relationships  stir  something  ancient  in  you.  the  longing,  the  loss,  the  haunting  sense  that  love  always  asks  for  too  much.  you  might  attract  intense  bonds,  ones  that  feel  fated,  magnetic,  even  destructive.  power  dynamics,  trust  issues,  and  betrayal  may  surface  more  than  once.  this  lifetime  asks  you  to  heal  your  heart  through  conscious  love,  to  choose  people  who  hold  you  gently,  not  hostage.  you  are  not  doomed  to  repeat  pain.  you  are  here  to  learn  that  love  can  be  safe,  soulful,  and  sacred…  without  the  bloodshed.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 8H ﹑ ﹒ you  may  have  died  shrouded  in  secrecy.  your  final  breath  tangled  in  power,  betrayal,  or  the  quiet  hum  of  something  otherworldly.  this  placement  speaks  of  a  death  cloaked  in  mystery.  perhaps  you  were  sacrificed,  assassinated,  or  pulled  into  the  dark  web  of  secrets  you  once  tried  to  master.  your  life  may  have  been  one  of  influence,  but  also  danger  possibly  connected  to  occult  practices,  hidden  alliances,  forbidden  knowledge,  or  wealth  that  came  at  too  great  a  cost.  it  may  have  ended  in  betrayal  by  someone  who  knew  you  well,  knew  exactly  where  to  twist  the  knife.  or  you  yourself  may  have  been  the  keeper  of  secrets  so  heavy  that  they  pulled  you  under.  in  this  lifetime,  there’s  a  quiet  fear  of  surrender.  you  might  shy  away  from  intimacy,  psychic  experiences,  or  the  dark  corners  of  your  own  mind  yet  feel  inexplicably  drawn  to  them.  like  you  remember  what  it  was  like  to  know  too  much.  to  trust  too  deeply.  to  lose  yourself  in  power.  you  may  be  spiritually  gifted  but  unsure  whether  it’s  safe  to  open  that  door.  the  pull  toward  transformation  is  strong,  but  so  is  the  fear  of  what  it  might  cost.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 9H ﹑ ﹒ you  might’ve  died  while  you  were  out  on  some  big  journey  maybe  a  pilgrimage  or  just  seeking  deeper  meaning.  there’s  a  chance  that  you  were  executed  or  punished  just  for  holding  onto  beliefs  that  were  different  from  everyone  else’s,  whether  it  was  about  religion,  philosophy,  or  culture.  things  like  crusades  or  holy  wars?  those  might’ve  played  a  part  too,  or  even  a  battle  over  ideologies.  and  who  knows,  you  could’ve  even  died  in  a  shipwreck  or  from  some  unknown  disease  while  far  away  from  home,  trying  to  explore  uncharted  territories.  now,  in  this  life,  you're  probably  someone  who’s  super  into  learning,  seeking  truth,  and  just  understanding  the  bigger  picture  of  life.  you’ve  got  that  wisdom  vibe  and  probably  a  strong  need  to  dig  deep  into  things,  maybe  even  philosophy  or  spirituality.  but  with  that,  there  might  also  be  a  bit  of  fear  or  trauma  when  it  comes  to  your  beliefs.  maybe  in  the  past,  you  got  punished  or  misunderstood  for  what  you  believed  in,  so  now  there’s  this  underlying  worry  about  being  judged  or  criticized  for  what  you  hold  true.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 10H ﹑ ﹒ you  might’ve  died  because  of  a  major  public  fall  from  grace.  think  public  execution,  assassination,  or  just  being  overthrown  in  some  dramatic  way.  you  could’ve  been  someone  with  real  power  like  a  king,  queen,  or  rule  and  your  ambition  or  actions  made  you  a  target.  maybe  you  were  betrayed,  falsely  accused,  or  even  executed  in  front  of  a  crowd.  it  could’ve  been  because  of  political  drama,  revenge,  or  just  some  nasty  intrigue  that  led  to  your  downfall.  now,  in  this  life,  you  probably  have  a  pretty  strong  drive  for  success  and  recognition.  you  want  to  make  an  impact  and  get  noticed  for  your  abilities,  and  you  might  be  super  ambitious  about  climbing  the  social  or  professional  ladder.  there’s  this  deep  desire  to  protect  your  public  image,  and  you  may  find  yourself  drawn  to  leadership  roles  or  positions  where  you  can  show  what  you're  capable  of.  it’s  kind  of  a  karmic  thing  that  need  to  be  seen  as  important,  powerful,  or  influential,  even  if  it’s  something  you’re  still  figuring  out  how  to  navigate.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 11H ﹑ ﹒ in  a  past  life,  you  might’ve  been  betrayed  by  people  you  trusted,  or  maybe  your  life  ended  while  you  were  challenging  the  status  quo.  your  death  could’ve  been  tied  to  some  kind  of  group  conflict,  maybe  during  a  revolution  or  activist  movement  where  you  were  fighting  for  social  change  or  justice.  you  might’ve  been  one  of  those  rebels  who  stood  up  for  what  you  believed  in,  only  to  face  violence  or  even  sacrifice  because  of  it.  now,  in  this  life,  you  might  feel  like  you  just  don’t  quite  fit  in  with  traditional  groups  or  social  circles.  there's  probably  this  feeling  of  being  an  outsider,  like  you’re  always  on  the  fringe.  you  might  also  carry  a  lot  of  mistrust  when  it  comes  to  friendships,  possibly  because  of  those  past-life  betrayals,  and  there's  this  strong  desire  to  make  a  difference  or  speak  up  for  causes  you  believe  in  but  at  the  same  time,  you  probably  have  a  deep  fear  of  what  could  happen  if  you  do.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PLUTO IN 12H ﹑ ﹒ in  a  past  life,  you  might've  died  in  a  mental  institution,  possibly  due  to  struggles  with  mental  illness  or  some  heavy  internal  battles.  your  death  could’ve  been  shrouded  in  mystery,  unnoticed,  or  even  erased  from  history,  leaving  you  to  pass  away  alone,  either  physically  or  emotionally  isolated.  you  might've  been  someone  who  dealt  with  self-destructive  behaviors  or  just�� suffered  quietly,  leading  to  a  tragic  and  forgotten  end.  now,  in  this  lifetime,  you  might  carry  some  unconscious  fears  or  a  heightened  psychic  sensitivity.  it’s  like  you  have  this  deep  inner  knowing,  this  strong  intuition,  and  maybe  even  an  attraction  to  the  mystical,  occult,  or  unknown  realms.  there  could  also  be  a  subconscious  fear  of  being  isolated  or  abandoned,  echoing  that  loneliness  from  your  past-life  death.

[beescake]

i am in love with your sollux i think

sollux love party :]

if you’re interested heres some of my personal fondness thoughts on him.. big warning for the mega long read ahead aye

as we alr know sollux's rejection of participation somewhat mirrors dave's rejection of heroism, but even without getting cooked to completion i still find sollux's character v compelling beyond the fourth wall

as someone who doesnt get a pinch of that Protagonist Sparkle to begin with, he can openly say he wants to leave anytime…. and unlike dave, he actually Can leave the scene anytime. but he can never be truly Free from the story via permanent character death like the other trolls.

his irrelevancy is indeed relevant - he’s there so u can point him out.

while his image is intended to be a relic of past internet subculture, his role is not only about hehehaha being a Chad or a 2000s cyberforum 2²chan haxxor ragequit gamebro.

his continued existence also happens to add a Bit to the overarching themes of homestuck! a Bit that gives him longer-lasting thematic relevance compared to the trolls who could’ve had more character potential but didnt get to survive beyond the main story.

the Bit in question:

his defiance contributes to the illusion of agency (treating characters = people with autonomy). he’s “aware” of it, and that recognition is worth noting enough to forcibly keep him alive as both reward and punishment.

considering how his personality & classpect is designed its definitely a very haha thing for hussie to do LOL. he’s made to be op asf so he's resigned to doing dirty work, gradually deteriorating along the way but never truly dying. as fans have mentioned before, him openly rejecting involvement after a while of grim tolerance is like if the sim u were controlling suddenly stopped, looked up and gave u the finger while u were step six into the walkthrough for Every Possible Sim Death Animation.

but since he’s just a sim… the more he hates it, the more you keep him around. if ur sim started complaining abt your whimsical household storyline you’d definitely keep that little fuck.

but yeah i like that sollux is just idling. the significance of his presence being that one dude who's always reliably Somewhere, root core Unchanged, no individual ambitions (possibly due to fear of consequence?), and design-wise: a staple representative product of his time.

compared to dirk's character, who has aged phenomenally well into the present (themes of control + AR + artificial intelligence, clearer exploration around navigating relationships/sexuality, infinite possibilities of self-splinterhood and trait inheritance), sollux's potential is really... contained. bitter. defeatist. limiting and frustrating in the way old tech is.

the world continues moving on to shinier, brighter, more advanced automated things - minimalist and metaverse or whatever but sollux is still here 🧍‍♂️ going woohoo redblue 3d. (tho personally i imagine his vibe similar to what the kids call cassette futurism on pinterest mixed w more grimy grunge insectoid influences eheh)

conceptually-speaking,

at the foundation of it all, the rapid pace of modern development was built off the understanding of ppl like sollux in the past, who were There actively at work while the dough was still beginning to rise

thats one of the cool things abt the idea of trolls preceding humans! the idea that trolls like sollux excelled back when lots of basic shit still needed to be discovered, building structures like networks and codes from scratch, and humans will eventually inherit and reinvent that knowledge in ways that become so optimized it makes the old manual effort seem archaic, slow, and labour-intensive.

but despite information/resources/shortcuts being more accessible now, much of the new highly-anticipated stuff released on trend still end up unfinished, inefficient, or expiring quickly due to cutting corners under severe capitalistic pressures

meanwhile, some of the old stuff frm past generations of thorough, exploratory and perfectionistic development still remains working, complete, and ever so sturdy.

those things continue to exist, just outside our periphery with either:

zero purpose left for modern needs (outdated/obsolete)

or

far too important to replace or destroy, bcs of its surprisingly essential and circumstantial usefulness in one niche specific area.

which are honestly? both points that sum up sollux pree well.

dramatic ending sorry. anw are u still on the fence or are u Sick abt him like me </3

[signanothername]

Was listening to “The Court Jester” before I thought of something.

Does your version of Nightmare have like, a will of some sort? Like, if Nightmare were to die because if Dream had won against him and like, killed nightmare or nightmare just died cause he old and crusty (/hj), would Killer get his things?? Like his mansion/castle, clothing, throne, prized possessions, etc. .or would Killer just mourn over Nightmare, wander around the castle and like, get nothing but help himself to things inside of it? Finding his secrets and stuff like that?

Interesting question >:)

Ok so i feel like it’s pretty much clear Nightmare does own a lot of things, his castle one of them of course

But I feel like had Nightmare died Killer wouldn’t inherit anything after, cause to inherit something you need to be a family, which Killer isn’t, and tbh, I don’t think Killer would ever care enough to want to inherit Nightmare’s possessions regardless, he certainly wouldn’t care if Nightmare died either

Nightmare’s death would negatively impact Killer, but not in a “Killer would feel sad and mourn Nightmare” kinda way, more like “Killer had been a bit codependent on Nightmare to find purpose that now Nightmare’s dead he doesn’t truly understand what to do with his life” kinda way, but even then, it’s not like Killer truly understood if he had any purpose at all anymore other than to be someone’s killing machine, so i feel like he’d move on to do whatever the fuck he wants anywhere he wants

Killer would simply abandon the castle and go somewhere else, especially with the fact that the one who kept him trapped there no longer exists to continue keeping him there, and it’s not like Killer holds any attachment to it or Nightmare, Killer can’t feel anything most of the time anyway, and even when he does (stage 1) it’s not like he holds Nightmares in high regard (especially with how Nightmare treated him)

Know who’d actually inherit Nightmare’s possessions tho? Dream, and unlike Killer, I can see Dream actually genuinely caring about inherenting every little thing Nightmare ever owned, cause Nightmare’s possessions are the only things left of his now dead brother, Dream would heavily mourn the loss of his brother and I can even see him taking care of Nightmare’s possessions for the rest of his ageless life, making sure the castle is spotless (spring cleaning if you will) he’d take all Nightmare had, from paperwork, to photos, to books, to the crescent golden crown and keep them somewhere safe, making sure they never wear down with time

Dream knows Nightmare actually cares about keeping things prestine and he aims to keep it as prestine as he possibly can (and maybe it’s cause of the crushing guilt weighing him down about how both their lives had been, and how he couldn’t ever fix it)

And who knows, maybe Dream would start healing when he realizes that there’s a tiny part of Nightmare that still cared about him even after his corruption in the process ;)

Part 2 (of sorts)

Part 3 (a lil bit)

Part 4

[batmanlovesnirvana]

| BATTINSON HEADCANONS ! 🦇

A/N : old post from two years ago, but I’ve changed and added a few things since then

my boy is awkward as hell, but somehow, not at all—it really just depends on who he’s with and the vibe of the moment

sassy when he feels like it, but most of the time? he’s a total nonverbal enigma … half the time, all you’re getting are grunts and the occasional raised eyebrow

specially if you’re still just a stranger to him, or even just a friend

he’s ridiculously stubborn : dug-in-heels, won’t-budge-an-inch stubborn. and, of course, he inherited every ounce of it from his darling mama...

had a Star Wars phase when he was 9

he could’ve talked to you all day back then if you’d asked — about every character, every layer they had, his favorite, and why

I think his fave would’ve prob be Luke

but secretly, he’d have a soft spot for Darth Vader too, not for the evil he represents, but for the complexity of his character

he was definitely spoiled, lived the life of a prince, no doubt about it. but his parents made sure to keep him grounded, always lecturing him to be thankful for what he had and to value everything, no matter how small

he’s the last person to complain about anything, especially when it comes to material stuff

If your apartment’s not exactly perfect or if you don’t have all the fancy things, don’t feel embarrassed — he couldn’t care less about that

Bruce isn’t the type to judge people for their circumstances

what matters to him is who you are, not what you have

he traveled a lot and saw poverty up close. he didn’t just witness it; he experienced it and used it as a way to train and push himself

so I think he’d insist that you don’t let his wealth define you or make you feel small. he’d want you to focus on who you are, not what he has

but he’s still a billionaire

and sometimes it shows

Like if he takes you somewhere, he might be like,

“That place wasn’t good, not what I wanted for you, their steak was too dry”

or “The service was way below expectations.”

it’s not that he’s trying to flex, but his standards have been shaped by a life of luxury and privilege.

even if he doesn’t mean to, it can come off like he’s out of touch with the more everyday experiences.

listen, I’m pretty sure he was that kid in middle school, the one everyone liked. Popular, friendly, Shy, and effortlessly cool, he had a ton of friends and was the kind of person people just gravitated toward

but deep down, he was still an introvert at heart. No matter how many friends he had or how much people loved being around him, he always cherished his alone time — it was his way of recharging

probably teacher favorite

after his parents were murdered, he retreated into himself, becoming a loner, a shadow of the person he once was. the bright, sociable kid who could light up a room disappeared, leaving behind a quiet, guarded shell

he shut everyone out; his friends, his teachers, anyone who tried to reach him.

communication felt impossible, like talking to a wall ready to crumble at the slightest touch. he became volatile, quick to anger and prone to violent outbursts.

the smallest thing could set him off and it was clear he was battling demons far too heavy for a child to carry

he was always getting into fights at school, over the most ridiculous things … someone looking at him the wrong way, a comment that barely made sense, or a passing remark. it didn’t matter how trivial; he’d snap.

it was like he was itching for a reason to lash out, just to feel something other than the numbness that haunted him

alfred was absolutely fed up every time the school would call. It was the same routine, another fight, another complaint.

his patience was wearing thin but he never showed it.

he’d just sigh, straighten his tie, and head to pick Bruce up, trying to stay calm while his mind was racing with how much things had changed

alfred probably thought about quitting a dozen times, especially during those rough moments. he was already carrying the weight of guilt over Thomas and Martha’s deaths, feeling like he’d failed them in some way.

but even through his exhaustion, he couldn’t walk away.

he simply couldn’t abandon Bruce, not when his parents had entrusted him with their son’s care, not when the boy was falling apart.

bc alfred knew that no matter how hard it got, he had to stay—because Bruce needed him, even if he didn’t always show it.

it’s pretty clear that Bruce really doesn’t have time for small talk.

that man goes straight to the point, no beating around the bush. sometimes, it’s like he forgets there’s a filter between his brain and his mouth—so he comes off way too blunt.

but, honestly, he just doesn’t see the need to waste time on unnecessary pleasantries.

if he’s got something to say, he’s saying it, no fluff.

Bruce absolutely loves car races (it's actually canon in the prequel book)

he’s got that need for speed, and nothing gets his adrenaline pumping like watching or being part of a high-stakes race.

it’s not just about the cars; it’s the whole atmosphere, the precision, the thrill of it all.

you can tell he’s got a real passion for it—just one of those things he doesn’t talk about much bc he rarely even talks that is

and so, naturally, he’s got a huge interest in F1

He’s got a serious passion for mechanics too—like, borderline obsession

favorite car is, without a doubt, his grandfather's Corvette (the one that makes an appearance in that iconic funeral scene)

another phase he went through during his late teens—but never really left—was his obsession with Nirvana

It hit him so hard that he even picked up an electric guitar because of it.

spending hours alone in his room trying to replicate their sound, teaching himself riffs from songs like “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Lithium.”

it became an outlet for him, a way to channel his emotions without having to say a word

he wasn’t looking to impress anyone or form a band—it was just for him, a way to lose himself in the music. over time, he got pretty good at it, though he’d never admit it

and I think music became another refuge for him, a way to escape the chaos in his head

overall, though, he was a massive fan of Nirvana and Kurt Cobain

did date as a teenager, but it was never anything too serious

his heart was always more focused on Gotham—on his plans, his ambitions, and the legacy he was determined to create

relationships were never a priority for him back then; it was always about the bigger picture, the city that needed saving, the work that needed to be done.

gotham was always at the forefront of his mind, and nothing, not even the most charming date, could truly distract him from his ultimate goal

honestly, I don’t think he’s even a virgin. or maybe he is—who knows? but the prequel book did mention he knew his way around women, so it’s safe to say he’s no stranger to that side of things

was a straight-A student without even breaking a sweat. it just came naturally to him

fave subject was chemistry

he looks a lot like his mother but you could definitely see his father in him too—kind of a perfect mix of both, like a living blend of their best features

he inherited his mother jawline and hair

and his father eyes and nose

was really close to his paternal grandparents

they passed away when he was only seven, so his memories of them are more like faint impressions. but looking at the pictures on the fireplace, you can tell just how much they meant to him

according to Alfred, it was his grandparents who chose his name

never really knew anything about his maternal grandparents, except that they were long gone before he was even born. it was just one of those things he never thought to ask about, something his mother never spoke much about. it was as if they were just figures in the past, distant and forgotten, not even a whisper of a memory for him to cling to

he’s got a ton of distant cousins, most of them living over in Europe, but honestly he doesn’t talk to a single one of them. it’s not like he cares to, either.

that's another reason why Alfred ended up with custody. with all those distant relatives, none of them really stepped up and Bruce wasn’t exactly close to them anyway.

alfred was the one who had always been there, so it just made sense

didn’t mind being an only son, but deep down, he used to beg his mom for a sibling

comfort smell? It’s his mom’s perfume—lavender mixed with a hint of lemon

and Alfred cookies ofc

Bruce’s go-to comfort clothing is his dad’s old Harvard sweater—it’s just cozy and familiar.

as a kid, he’d call his mom "Mummy" or "Mama" and his dad "Papa."

most of his suits? Hand-me-downs from his dad. He’s only got a few of his own.His favorite sport is soccer—don’t ask why; it just makes sense.

Bruce has always been fascinated by his family’s history.

his dad used to tell him all these stories about their ancestors, and Bruce would listen so intently, always begging for more.

sure, the library had books on it, but hearing the stories from his dad just hit different. his dad’s voice made it all feel personal and alive.

oh, and he’s canonically descended from English royalty

his mom was really into gardening.

she loved her plants, especially lilies of the valley and Bethlehem stars.

Lily of the valley: sweetness and purity of heart.

Bethlehem star: hope and happiness.

she used to say they reminded her of his dad and Bruce.

Martha was also super into art and fashion.

she painted and was basically a Gotham fashion icon

because of her, Bruce was always dressed to impress as a kid

his dad, though, was the total opposite. Thomas Wayne’s tie was always crooked, and he had zero fashion sense

Bruce remembers how every morning, his mom would fix his dad’s tie and scold him about it, but Thomas would just kiss her to shut her up

at work, his dad was all about scrubs, and at home, it was pajamas and a robe

Bruce sometimes wears his dad’s robe now—it’s comforting

when it comes to fashion, Bruce is totally his dad’s son

if Alfred didn’t step in, he’d probably look a mess.

his dad loved photography and books

Bruce remembers how his dad used to take photos of his mom and him all the time

the library is packed with pictures of his family—mostly his mom and little Bruce

his parents’ love for each other was something else, and Bruce secretly dreams of having something like that one day

and deep down, he’s a total romantic. he gets that from his dad

he’s already decided that if he ever gets married, he’ll propose with his mom’s ring

a diamond blue sapphire ring

Alfred used to sneak him sweets before dinner (classic Alfred move)

they played chess a lot, though Bruce never actually won

Dory, his mom’s maid, was one of the midwives when Bruce was born

she’s also the one who taught him how to cook, and yeah, Bruce knows how to cook ( the essential at least )

everyone says he’s a cat person, but honestly, I feel he's more like a dog person. It just fits.

part 2 ?

or should I do dating headcanons ?

[81buttons]

'Childcare, skates and kisses'

F1- OS

Franco Colapinto x reader

Summary : Where Franco and you have to spend a day together with your niece

Warnings: So, I kinda realize Idk anything about kids’ ages, so maybe she’s too young for the stuff she’s doing, but whatever, you just play along… lots of fluff ‘cause I really need it. It’s just Franco with kids it’s cute, it’s sweet, that’s all. And maybe a little flirty hint (because, well, it’s Franco) & English is not my first language so sorry :) and i already gave a name to your niece sorry

I’m posting this fic 'cause I’ve had the idea since Vegas. Just to be clear it’s not saying Franco should have kids or anything—he’s still young... It’s just a cute story and it works well since I found out a few days ago that I’m an auntie for the first time,  hiiii !!! To a little niece, so the inspiration came naturally !

NB: Y/B/N = your brother's name

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Franco parked in front of your building, slamming the door of his car with a sigh. He was tired, still a bit out of it from his last trip for a GP, but happy to be back with you after a long race weekend. All he wanted was to curl up in your arms, enjoy your smile, and maybe have a quiet evening together. He knocked softly on the door and waited. A few seconds later, the door opened… but instead of your usual smile, a little girl around five years old, wearing a unicorn pajama, with messy little curls and holding a stuffed animal way too big for her, stood there, looking up at him with a bright smile that reminded him of someone.

— Hi! Who are you? the little girl asked cheerfully.

Franco stammered, clearly confused:

— Uh… hey? And who are you?

He looked behind her, trying to figure out what was going on, but all he could hear was the sound of a cartoon playing in the living room. Before the little girl could answer, you appeared quickly, holding a towel to dry your hands.

— Oh, babe, you’re here! Sorry, I didn’t hear you knock, you said with a soft laugh.

You walked over, lifted your little niece into your arms, kissed her cheek, and gave Franco a quick kiss hello. But Franco, still frozen, couldn’t resist teasing.

— So… do you have something to tell me? Like… we had a baby and you forgot to tell me? he said, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You burst out laughing at his shocked face, and your niece giggled in your arms.

— Silly. This is Emma, my niece. Remember, I told you my brother needed me to look after her today?

Franco sighed, pretending to be relieved:

— Oh, okay. Because I was wondering how I could’ve forgotten something like that. She’s a mini-you, it’s kinda creepy. I thought it was a tiny version of you.

You set Emma down and invited her inside. The little girl, curious, didn’t take her eyes off Franco.

— Are you Uncle Fran? Emma asked excitedly.

Franco raised an eyebrow, glancing at you, amused.

— Uncle Fran? That’s what you call me now?

— I might’ve told her a little about you… She was super excited to meet you, you admitted with a smile.

Franco bent down to look Emma in the eye and pretended to be serious.

— So, you must be… Princess Emma, the mini-version of your auntie Y/N. Nice to meet you, young lady.

Emma burst into laughter and reached her arms out for a hug. Franco, touched, picked her up.

— I hope you didn’t inherit your aunt’s temper, or we’re in trouble.

— No, I’m funnier than her, Emma replied with a laugh.

— Hey! Traitor! you protested, pretending to be offended.

Franco laughed out loud, and you all walked into the apartment. He noticed a tray of cereal, fruit juices, and toast on the table.

— You could’ve told me. I would’ve brought some candy or something, he said.

— Since when you need an excuse to eat candy? you replied, rolling your eyes.

Emma sat down in a chair, but as soon as Franco sat next to her, she climbed onto his lap.

— I want to eat on Uncle Fran’s lap! she declared.

Franco raised an eyebrow, amused.

— Well, princess, you don’t waste any time, do you?

While you made a cup of coffee, you shot a playful look at Franco.

— “Watch out, don’t let those pretty eyes and angel face fool you. She’s going to get you to do whatever she wants,” you warned.

As if to confirm your words, Emma started laughing with an adorable smile. Franco was done for. 

He burst out laughing, beginning to hand her pieces of toast while listening to her chatter about Frozen, the butterflies she learned to draw at school, and her love for unicorns. You watched the scene, amused, as Franco seriously engaged in her conversations, even giving his opinion on unicorns.

When Emma finished her bowl of cereal, she looked up, eyes sparkling.

— Uncle Fran, is it true you’re a race car driver and go super, super fast?

Franco paused dramatically.

— Hmm… who told you that?

— Auntie Y/N, she said mischievously.

Franco looked at you with a teasing smile.

— Oh yeah? You talk about me to everyone, huh?

— Not really. Just to people who care, you replied with a playful look.

Emma tugged at Franco’s sleeve.

— Do you go as fast as Lightning McQueen?

Franco nodded, amused.

— Exactly, mi amor. Like Lightning McQueen, but better.

— And do you always win?

Franco leaned in close, whispering like it was a secret.

— Of course. I’m the best.

From the counter, you burst into laughter and couldn’t help but tease.

— Not always, huh? Sometimes Uncle Fran gets overtaken.

Franco placed a theatrical hand over his heart, pretending to be hurt.

— What’s all this slander? I’m a champion!

Emma, with admiration:

— I think he’s the best!

Franco winked at her and tickled her, causing her to burst into giggles. You watched them, touched by their immediate bond.

You rolled your eyes, but a fond smile played on your lips.

“Alright, champion, since you’re so perfect, could you do me a favor?”

Franco looked at you, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.

“Hmm, depends. What’s the favor?”

You walked up to him, holding a brush and a little flower hair elastic.

“Could you do Emma’s hair while I finish getting ready?”

Emma, hopping with excitement, added:

“I want braids today! Like Elsa!”

Franco raised an eyebrow, confused.

“Braids? You want me to do braids?”

Emma jumped off his lap and ran to grab a blue snowflake hair clip. From across the room, she yelled:

“And my Elsa clip too!”

You crossed your arms, mischievous.

“So, champ, ready to take on the challenge?”

Franco sighed dramatically.

“Fine, okay. But if I mess up, you won’t hold it against me, right Emma?”

Emma trotted back, handing him the clip before sitting down obediently in a chair. Franco stared at the brush in his hands like it was a complicated object.

“So, do I start by brushing? Is that the thing?”

A smirk formed on your face as you sipped your coffee.

“Congrats, you’ve already got the basics down. Keep going, genius.”

Franco began brushing Emma’s curly hair, but the knots made it tricky.

“Ouch, Uncle Fran!”

Franco panicked slightly.

“Oops, sorry, sorry.”

He struggled to separate the strands to make braids, but nothing stayed in place. Passing through the living room, you couldn’t help but smile at the scene.

“Everything okay, champ? Getting through it?”

Franco grumbled in response.

“This is tougher than a gp, your thing.”

You burst out laughing, watching him struggle.

Emma, still cheerful:

“You’re funny, Uncle Fran!”

After several failed attempts, Franco gave up on the braids and went for two pigtails.

“Well, Emma, I think pigtails suit you better than braids. Don’t you think?”

Emma nodded, eyes shining.

“With my Elsa clip?”

Seriously, he pinned the clip to the side and let out a sigh of relief as he admired his work. You came back into the room and inspected the result.

“Well, it’s not perfect, but I’ll admit, you did okay.”

Franco shrugged, pretending to be modest.

“That’s called natural talent”

After breakfast and the hair episode, you suggested a trip to the park. Emma jumped for joy at the idea. Franco, though clearly tired, agreed with a shrug.

“Alright, princess, let’s go to the park. But if you tire me out too much, it’s Aunt Y/N who’s going to have to carry me back.”

You crossed your arms with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll end up carrying Emma AND her backpack.”

Emma, already bouncing near the door:

“Yeah, Uncle Fran!”

Franco shot you a teasing glance.

“You see? I’m the favorite here. Sorry, baby.”

Amused, you grabbed your bag while they got ready to leave.

The trio arrived at the park on a beautiful winter’s day. Emma immediately ran towards the playground but quickly turned around.

“Uncle Fran, come with me!”

Slouched on a bench next to you, Franco sighed.

“She’s got too much energy, that little one.”

You chuckled softly.

“Come on, Uncle Fran. Show her you’re the king of the playground.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Franco stood up.

“Fine. But if I get hurt, you’re massaging me tonight.”

You smiled, teasing.

“Watch out for making a fool of yourself instead.”

With a wink in your direction, he went to join Emma, who was eagerly waiting for him…

Emma climbed up the slide and called out to Franco.

“Uncle Franco, look at me!”

With his hands on his hips, Franco responded,

“I’m watching, princess. Show me what you’ve got.”

Emma slid down laughing, arms in the air. Franco clapped loudly.

“Bravo! But you know, I’m the champion of the slide. No one can beat me.”

Emma looked at him, surprised.

“Really?”

To prove his point, Franco climbed up the slide. With his height, he was clearly too big for it. From a distance, you burst out laughing as you watched him get stuck halfway up.

“Need some help, Uncle Fran?” you shouted teasingly.

Struggling to move, Franco replied,

“No, no, I’m fine!”

Emma, cracking up, encouraged him.

“Uncle Fran, you’re too big for the slide!”

Finally, Franco managed to slide down, landing in the sand, covered in dust. He stood up, proudly brushing himself off.

“There you go, mission accomplished!”

You gently teased him.

“Yeah, really impressive…”

Walking over to you with a mischievous grin, Franco said,

“Jealous? Want to try it, baby?”

You shook your head, amused.

“No thanks. I like to keep my dignity.”

After a busy morning, you all sat down on a blanket while Emma played, building castles in the sandbox.

You said to Franco, a bit admiring,

“You’re really good with kids.”

Franco shrugged, pretending to be modest.

“Of course. Kids love me. I’m irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking.

“Still as humble as ever. You know that doesn’t work if you’re the one complimenting yourself?”

Franco winked at you.

“You’re lucky, Y/N. I like your brother, but I like his little princess even more.”

You let out a playful laugh.

“And now I have to deal with two kids…”

You both burst out laughing, interrupted by Emma, who came running toward you, super excited.

“Look at my castle, it’s so pretty, right?”

After their trip to the park, you all returned to the apartment. Emma, full of energy despite the already busy morning, didn’t seem ready to calm down.

“Uncle Fran, can we play a game?!” she squealed, bouncing up and down.

Sinking into the couch, Franco gave her a tired smile.

“A game? But I’m an old, tired man…”

Emma placed her hands on her hips, her face determined.

“You’re not old, Uncle Fran! You’re just lazy!”

You burst out laughing, sitting next to Franco: “She got you there,” you teased.

Franco raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended.

“Lazy, me? Alright, little princess, what game do you want to play?”

Emma clapped her hands, excited.

“Hide and seek!”

Franco raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, I’m the king of hide and seek. No one’s ever found me.”

Emma crossed her arms, determined.

“We’ll see about that!”

And so, the game began.

Franco slowly gets up, stretching exaggeratedly, before signaling to Emma.

“Alright, it’s you who counts, little spy. But no cheating, okay?”

Emma closes her eyes, placing her hands in front of her face.

“I’m counting to ten. Get ready, Uncle Fran!”

Franco gives you a quick glance, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Watch closely, baby. I’m about to prove I’m the best,” he whispers.

You roll your eyes, amused.

Emma starts counting out loud.

“One… two… three…”

Franco quietly runs through the apartment, looking for a hiding spot. He hesitates between hiding behind the living room curtains or in the bathroom bathtub, but finally decides to lie down behind the couch.

Emma finishes counting.

“Ten! Here I come!”

She opens her eyes and looks around.

“Hmmm… where’s Uncle Fran?”

She walks through the living room, checking behind the curtains, then turns to you.

“Auntie Y/N, do you know where he is?”

You give her a teasing smile.

“Maybe. But I won’t tell you.”

Emma squints her eyes, as if she suspects something.

“You’re kidding! That means he’s close by!”

She runs into the living room, circling the couch. Franco, lying on the floor, deliberately lets part of his shoe stick out.

Emma lets out an excited shout.

“A-ha! I found you, Uncle Fran!”

Franco pretends to jump in surprise.

“Noooo! How did you do that?!”

Emma bursts out laughing.

“I’m too good!”

Franco stands up, lifts her into the air, and spins her around gently.

“Okay, okay, you’re the best. But now, it’s your turn to hide.”

Emma runs off to hide, her laughter echoing through the apartment. Franco turns to you.

“She’s probably going to pick an obvious spot, right?”

You shrug with a smile.

“Maybe. But pretend to have trouble finding her, or she’ll get upset.”

Franco nods, playing along, and starts searching loudly.

“Hmmm… maybe she’s here?” he says, deliberately checking under a cushion.

“Nope.”

He moves toward the kitchen and opens a cupboard.

“Or here? Still nothing… Where could she be?”

Emma, hiding under the table with a tablecloth hanging all the way to the floor, tries to hold in her laughter. Franco walks past the table, then stops, glancing at you.

“This is impossible. She’s evaporated,” he says dramatically.

You join in on the game.

“Maybe she snuck back home.”

Franco pretends to panic. Emma bursts out laughing, giving away her hiding spot. Franco suddenly turns his head.

“What?! That sound?!”

He quickly crouches down, lifts the tablecloth, and finds Emma, who’s laughing uncontrollably.

“A-ha! Gotcha!” he exclaims, grabbing her.

He lifts her onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, making her laugh even harder.

After several rounds of hide-and-seek, Emma, tired, settled onto Franco’s lap on the couch. She was playing with his hair while he held her gently. Sitting next to them, you watched the scene with a soft smile.

You rest your head on Franco’s shoulder, happy to see him being so sweet with your niece. This simple but perfect moment of closeness reminded you once again why you loved him.

A little later, Franco insisted on making something, even though he wasn’t exactly a master chef.

Franco, rummaging through the fridge: “Let’s see… Eggs, cheese, ham… Perfect, I’m making you an omelette.”

You cross your arms, a teasing smile on your lips.

“An omelette? How original… Should we call a food critic to rate it?”

Franco taps his chest, feigning offense.

“Babe you’re talking to a master of simple, efficient cooking. I can make meals with an even emptier fridge. Get ready to be impressed.”

You hold back a laugh.

“You don’t make them, you order them.”

Franco rolls his eyes, amused.

“Yeah, well… We do what we can, okay?”

Emma, sitting at the table, watches him with admiration.

“I want an omelette with lots of cheese, Uncle Fran!”

Franco turns to her with a smile.

“Of course, princesa. Anything you want. But if Auntie Y/N keeps doubting my chef skills, she’ll get a tiny omelette.”

You shake your head, amused, and decide to set the table while Franco prepares the meal.

After lunch, Emma enjoys a yogurt, but your phone rings. It’s your brother. You pick up immediately.

“Hello? Oh, Y/B/N, are you okay?”

On the other end, your brother sounds stressed. He explains that he’s stuck at work because of an unexpected emergency and won’t be able to pick up Emma as early as planned.

“Can you pass me the phone, please? I need to explain it to her.” your brother asks.

You look down at Emma, who’s playing with her spoon, and hand her the phone.

“Emma, it’s your dad. He wants to talk to you.”

Emma eagerly takes the phone.

“Hi, Daddy! Are you coming soon?”

In a soft but apologetic voice, her dad explains that he won’t be able to come because of work. Emma nods, but her smile fades.

“Okay, Daddy…”

She hands the phone back to you, clearly disappointed.

Seeing the little girl sad, Franco sets his napkin down and kneels next to her.

“Hey, princess. Why the long face?”

Emma, her eyes downcast:

“Daddy was supposed to take me to see Santa and have a big hot chocolate. But he can’t come…”

Franco thinks for a second, then claps his hands.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do. What if me, Auntie Y/N, and you go see Santa together?”

Emma looks up, her eyes sparkling.

“Really? You’d come with me?”

Franco, with a big grin:

“Of course! And I promise we’ll get the biggest hot chocolate we can find.”

You cross your arms, teasing:

“And I’m supposed to carry all the gift bags, right?”

Franco raises an eyebrow.

“Obviously. Who else?”

Emma bursts out laughing, her mood completely lifted.

A few hours later, you arrive at the mall, lit up with Christmas decorations and twinkling lights. Santa is sitting in a big red chair, surrounded by fake presents and a giant Christmas tree.

Emma, jumping with excitement while holding Franco’s hand, looks at you eagerly.

“Uncle Franco, do you think Santa will recognize me?”

Franco, with a serious smile, replies,

“Oh, of course. Princesses like you, he never forgets them.”

You can’t help teasing the little one.

“And maybe he’ll ask you why you didn’t listen to Uncle Franco when he told you to eat your vegetables at lunch.”

She stares at you, horrified.

“No! Uncle Fran, did you tell him?”

Franco bursts out laughing.

“No, mi amor, I’ve got your back. But next time, eat your veggies, okay?”

She nods vigorously, clearly relieved.

When it’s finally her turn to meet Santa, Emma climbs onto his lap, her eyes sparkling. You take out your phone to capture the moment, while Franco, next to you, can’t take his eyes off her, touched by the sight.

“She’s really adorable. She looks so much like you.”

You shoot him a playful look.

“At least she doesn’t have your ego, though.”

He pretends to be offended but just smiles, absorbed in watching Emma happily chat with Santa.

A little later, Franco insists that you all go to the mall’s café. He orders a hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream for Emma, a coffee for you, and a hot chocolate for himself.

He shows his cup to Emma with a smile.

“See? Even big guys like me love hot chocolate.”

The little one bursts into laughter.

“With lots of whipped cream, like me?”

“Exactly.”

You watch them, amused, rolling your eyes but unable to hold back your smile.

As you leave the mall, Emma, holding Franco’s hand and hopping with joy after her huge hot chocolate, spots an ice rink set up outside, surrounded by twinkling lights and Christmas music.

“Ohhh, Auntie Y/N, Uncle Fran, look! An ice rink! Can we go, please?”

You furrow your brow, eyeing the ice. “Oh, um… I don’t know, Emma. It looks slippery, and dangerous, and…”

“But, Auntiiiee… I just want to try, just a little bit!” She gives you that irresistible puppy-dog look.

Franco, next to her, grins slyly. “Come on, love. Let her have some fun. She’s small, and there are helpers to guide them.”

You sigh, already knowing you’re going to give in. Emma knows exactly how to make you crack. “Alright, fine. But only if she has all the safety gear.”

“Yessss! Thank you, Auntie Y/N!”

Once at the rink, you find a helper ready to assist the kids on the ice. Emma, equipped with skates, a helmet, and elbow pads, looks like a little doll in her pink puffer jacket and matching gloves.

She awkwardly glides on the ice, laughing out loud and sometimes holding onto the barriers or the helper. Franco, by your side, watches her with a fond smile.

“Look at her. She’s adorable. A real champion.”

You smile, touched. “Yeah, and so brave. I could never do that.”

Franco turns to you, a teasing smile on his lips. “Never? You mean you’ve never skated before?”

“I have, when I was little. But I was awful. I kept falling. And I’m not about to embarrass myself today.”

“Baby, that’s part of the fun. Besides, I’m here. I’ll hold you up. I promise.”

You hesitate, looking at him. “Franco, no. I’m definitely going to fall.”

He insists, a charming smile on his face. “If you fall, I’ll catch you. I’m your safety net.”

You roll your eyes, but Emma, from the ice, starts cheering you on.

“Auntie Y/N! Come skate with us! It’s so fun!”

After a lot of persuasion, you finally agree to put on skates. Franco holds out his hand to help you onto the ice.

“Oh my God, it’s so slippery. I’m going to die,” you murmur as you put one foot on the ice.

Franco laughs softly. “Baby, it’s an ice rink, and I’m right here. Relax.”

You grab his arms immediately, refusing to let go. “I’m warning you, if I fall, I’m killing you.”

“If you fall, we’ll fall together. It’ll be romantic,” he teases.

With a lot of effort and you clinging to him like an octopus, you move slowly on the ice. Franco chuckles as he guides you. “Baby, you know you’re supposed to move your feet, right? You’re just hanging onto me.”

“I’m moving my feet, you liar! It’s just… Aaaah, that guy’s going to run into us!”

A fast skater passes by, and you panic, losing your balance.

As you slide backward, Franco tries to catch you but loses his balance too, and you both end up on the ground, laughing uncontrollably.

“I told you I was going to fall!” you say between laughs.

“Yeah, but you could’ve avoided dragging me down with you!” He laughs too, lying on the ice.

Emma, having seen the whole scene, approaches slowly with the helper’s help.

“Auntie Y/N! Uncle Fran! Why are you on the ground?”

You try to get up, still laughing. “Because your Uncle Fran is terrible at skating.”

“Hey! You fell first!” Franco retorts, helping you get back up.

He rubs your back, concerned despite his smile.

“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine. Just my ego.”

“Your ego can take it. But let’s call it a day, okay?”

You both make your way to the edge of the rink while Emma continues to skate joyfully with the helper. Your cheeks are still red, and you glance at Franco.

“I hate you for making me do that.”

He plants a kiss on your temple, smiling.

“No, you love me.”

“Hmm… Maybe. But don’t expect me to get back on that ice.”

Franco smiles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you both watch Emma laugh and skate, full of energy.

After their crazy day at the mall and the ice rink, Franco, Emma, and you finally make it back home. Emma’s cheeks are still rosy from the cold, but she’s buzzing with energy, even after everything. Franco’s got her in his arms, and she’s wiggling around happily.

“Uncle Franco, do you think we can have some candy before dinner?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.

Franco grins, teasing. “Candy? Well, you know, candy are only for good kids mi amor. Are you sure you’ve been good today?”

Emma pulls the most adorable pout. “Yes! I’ve been good!”

You can’t help but laugh as you take off your coat, watching their back-and-forth. “Franco, stop messing with her, she’s been perfect all day. Plus, you’re the first one to cave when she gives you those puppy eyes.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, still playful. “Hey, it’s not my fault she has your look. How am I supposed to resist?”

While Emma settles in the living room with some toys, you and Franco get started on dinner in the kitchen. You’re chopping veggies while he’s distracted, digging around in the fridge. But it’s clear his mind’s not really on food. When he shuts the fridge door, you can feel him right behind you before he even says a word.

Without looking back, you call out, “Franco, I know you’re there. Don’t even think about it, I’m busy.”

“Me? I just wanted to… watch,” he says in a teasing, innocent voice.

You feel his hands rest lightly on your hips, and he leans in close to your ear, his voice low and soft. “But honestly, babe, after a day like today, I think I deserve a little reward.”

You roll your eyes, a playful smile on your lips. Holding your knife, you turn slightly towards him. “Franco, Emma is literally three feet away. Can you calm down a bit?”

“Calm? Me? Baby, I’m perfectly calm.” His hands glide gently over your hips, pulling you a little closer to him.

You feel his warm breath on your neck as he adds in a more provocative tone, “But you know, I missed you, and it’s your fault. With you in the same room as me… How am I supposed to stay focused?”

A soft laugh escapes you, though you try to keep a straight face. “Franco, let go of me. And stop with your nonsense before I cut you off a finger.”

He leans in further to plant a light kiss just below your ear, making your cheeks heat up. “Oh, I promise I can distract you in a much more fun way…”

Blushing, you say, “Franco!” before turning completely around to try to push him away. But he stays right where he is, that cocky grin you know so well on his lips.

“What? I’m just trying to help…” He glances down at the cutting board, then back up at you, amused. “But honestly, cutting carrots isn’t really my thing. I prefer when you do other things with your hands…”

You’re left speechless, shocked by his insinuation, but before you can respond, he bursts out laughing.

“Franco, I swear, if you keep this up, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” you say, crossing your arms.

He tilts his head with a charming smile. “On the couch? Oh, babe, you know I can’t sleep far from you.”

He moves even closer, his lips almost brushing yours. “And neither can you,” he whispers.

You roll your eyes, but he sees your smile starting to give away your amusement. “You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“Oh, I know. But admit it, that’s why you love me.”

Before you can reply, he captures your lips in a soft kiss that quickly turns more passionate. You both completely forget where you are.

A little voice suddenly rings out from the kitchen entrance. “Ewwww!”

You both jump apart, caught red-handed. Emma stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, with an exaggerated grimace.

“What are you doing? Why are you kissing like that? It’s disgusting!”

Franco takes a small step back, a mischievous smile on his lips, while you turn bright red. “Nothing at all, Emma. Uncle Franco is just… annoying,” you quickly reply.

Emma, narrowing her eyes, asks curiously, “Annoying? Why? Did he steal a candy?”

Franco laughs and crouches down to Emma’s level. “No, little princess, it’s because your Aunt Y/N is really beautiful, and I love giving her kisses. And even though she pretends otherwise, I promise you she loves when—”

A well-placed dish towel smacks him on the shoulder, and interrupts his sentence. He rubs his shoulder, laughing out loud, before adding, “Plus, you see, princess. If I had stolen a candy, I’m sure Aunt Y/N would have already punished me.”

You hold your head in your hands, tired of his antics, while Emma looks at him skeptically before changing the subject.

“I’m hungry. Is it ready?”

“Not yet, sweetheart. Give us five minutes,” you say with a smile.

She nods and heads back to the living room, but not without a final warning. “Uncle Fran, be careful. If you bother Aunt too much, I’ll tell Santa.”

Franco raises his hands, amused. “Promise, princess, I’ll be good.”

You shake your head with a mix of amusement and frustration. “See what you’ve done? Even Emma is wary of you now.”

He shrugs. “But baby, I can also try to be really good with you… but I’m not sure you’ll like that version.”

You give him a light elbow in the ribs, but your laughter betrays you—despite everything, you adore him

After dinner, you all crash on the couch.

“Auntie Y/N, can we watch Frozen?” Emma asks, her big eyes all hopeful, her stuffed animal gripped tight like it’s her lifeline.

You laugh, shaking your head.

“Again? Haven’t we watched it, like, ten times already this year?”

Franco, clearly enjoying this, jumps in.

“Come on, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. Let It Go is a masterpiece. I’m all in.”

You look at him, half amused, half annoyed.

“Really, Franco? Don’t encourage her, she’ll want to watch it three times tonight.”

Franco grins and winks at you.

“I’m ready to duet with her if that’ll win you over.”

Emma bursts out laughing, clapping her hands.

“Yes, Uncle Fran, sing with me!”

You roll your eyes but give in anyway.

“Alright, alright. But you two watch and sing, and I’ll just chill and nap through it like always.”

You all settle on the couch: Franco in the middle, you on his left, and Emma on his right, all snuggled up with her stuffed animal. The movie starts, and Emma is totally hooked from the opening scene. Franco, though, keeps sneaking glances at you, grinning as you try not to give in to the song.

Franco, whispering: “Admit it, you’re gonna get up and dance when Elsa sings.”

You glance at him, not buying it.

“In your dreams, Colapinto.”

“Oh, trust me, my dreams are way better than that.”

You nudge him playfully, but he grabs your hand and kisses it gently, still smiling.

“Ugh, stop kissing!” Emma says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You laugh out loud, and Franco raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay, princess, no more kisses in front of you. Promise.”

Emma nods happily and turns back to the movie.

As the movie goes on, Emma starts blinking slowly, her energy fading fast. You’ve leaned your head against Franco’s shoulder, half asleep yourself. Franco wraps an arm around your waist, the other one around Emma, who’s finally asleep against him, her stuffed animal still clutched tight.

Franco, whispering, glancing at you: “She’s pretty cute, huh?”

You close your eyes, barely mumbling.

“Yeah, she is. You’re not too bad as Uncle Fran either.”

Franco smiles softly and plants a kiss on top of your head.

Soon enough, all three of you are knocked out.

An hour later, your brother arrives, using his spare key after knocking with no answer. He freezes when he walks in, seeing you and Franco both out cold on the couch, with Emma curled up between you two, her stuffed animal still held close.

He stands there for a second, just watching, a soft smile on his face. Finally, you wake up a little, hearing a noise. You open your eyes, confused, and jump when you see your brother.

“Whoa, you scared me!” you whisper, panicked.

Your brother grins and says, “I’m here to pick up Emma. But… honestly, you guys are cute like this.”

Blushing, you sit up carefully so you don’t wake Emma.

“I’ll wake Franco.”

You shake him lightly, and he blinks his eyes open, looking half-dazed.

“What? What’s going on? Let me sleep a bit longer, please…”

You laugh, saying, “Wake up, my brother’s here to get Emma.”

Franco slowly sits up, but Emma, still asleep, clings to him like a little koala.

“No… stay…” she mumbles, half awake.

Franco gives you a soft look and smiles.

“I’ll carry her to the car.”

Franco walks your brother to the car with Emma in his arms. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake fully, and Franco takes advantage of that to buckle her into the car seat without a fight.

Your brother, smiling, says, “Thanks for watching her. She had a great day.”

Franco, grinning: “It was fun. She’s awesome, your little one.”

Just before leaving, your brother adds, “Hey, you guys mind keeping her next weekend? Just for a night?”

Before you can answer, Franco jumps in.

“Of course! We’d love to!”

You chuckle and shake your head.

“He’s gonna steal her from you, watch out.”

You all laugh before saying goodbyes.

When you and Franco finally got home, you were completely exhausted. Franco shut the door behind you, kicking off his shoes with a sigh of relief, while you collapsed on the couch, arms spread out like you’d just finished a marathon.

“Man, I didn’t think a five-year-old could be so… energetic.”

Franco flopped down next to you.

“She’s adorable, but yeah… I’m wiped. How does your brother survive every day? Does he have special training or something?”

You burst out laughing, resting your head on his shoulder.

“It must be in their DNA. I still haven’t recovered from today.”

Franco wrapped an arm around you, a mischievous grin on his face.

“So, Colapinto, you thinking about starting a career in babysitting?”

“Maybe. I mean, I’m pretty good at it.”

“Admit it, you’re a little jealous that Emma preferred me. She wanted to hang out with Uncle Fran all day.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, stop. She liked you because you spoiled her. Mr. ‘I’ll skate, sing Let It Go, and have a tea party dressed as a princess with an Elsa headband.’ I can’t compete with that.”

Franco, amused, protested.

“What?! I looked amazing in that headband, and you know it.”

“Amazing, maybe. Ridiculous, definitely.”

You both burst into laughter, your shoulders shaking with exhaustion. Franco turned slightly toward you, his playful look softening into something more serious.

“Honestly, though, I had a great day. Emma’s awesome. But you weren’t bad either. Even though you freaked out on the ice and ended up falling into me.”

You gave him a mockingly outraged slap on the arm.

Franco gave you a heated look.

“What? I’m just saying you were irresistible. You remember on the ice? Clinging to me like your life depended on it? It was almost sexy, babe.”

“Stop teasing me! I thought we were gonna die out there!”

Franco smiled, one corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Die? A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Blushing, you snapped back.

“Stop it! And I remind you, it’s your fault we fell.”

“Me?! Baby, I was holding you, but you panicked like we were about to die. You were literally clinging to me like I was your last hope.”

You gave him a soft tap on the shoulder.

“Well, you were supposed to be my last hope, Mr. Know-It-All.”

You both laughed again, but this time, the laughter faded, leaving a softer silence between you. Franco looked at you, his teasing expression giving way to something more serious.

“You know… watching her today, playing with her… it got me thinking.”

You looked at him curiously.

“Thinking about what?”

“About us. Maybe one day. Not now, obviously! I know it’s not the time. But… have you ever imagined yourself, you know, with a kid?”

You paused for a moment, your face showing a mix of surprise and tenderness.

“Honestly… I don’t know. It’s scary, right? Being a parent, it’s so much responsibility. And look at me, I couldn’t even convince a little girl to put on her hat properly today.”

Franco smiled softly, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, but you’d be amazing. Seriously. You have this way of making everything seem easier. Even today, with Emma, you were great.”

To lighten the mood, you teased him.

“Great? Are you sure we lived through the same day?”

“Absolutely. You were sweet, caring… a little panicked on the ice, but hey, nobody’s perfect.”

You laughed, nudging him lightly.

“And you? Mr. Perfect Uncle Fran. You really see yourself as a dad?”

Franco took a deep breath, thinking it over.

“Yeah… I think I could be. Today, when Emma looked at me with those big eyes and asked if I could carry her… it was like I really mattered to her, you know? And… I liked it.”

You looked at him, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

“You know, you’d be a really great dad.”

Franco turned his head toward you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Is that a subtle way of telling me something, babe?”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

“No, not yet. But I see it, you’ve got a way with kids. She adores you. And you were amazing with her. I think you’d be an incredible dad.”

Franco shrugged, feigning indifference.

“Of course I would be. With you by my side, we’d make an awesome team.”

You gave him an amused look.

“You really know how to flatter a girl, huh?”

Franco gently pulled you closer.

“I’m just telling the truth. And who knows? Maybe one day, our little boy or girl will beg you to sing Let It Go with me.”

You burst into laughter, resting your head against his chest.

“If that happens, we’ll have to wait a while. For now, we’ve got a lot on our plates. But maybe one day…”

Franco kissed your forehead, gently squeezing your hand.

“One day, then. But only if you promise not to freak out on the ice in front of our future kid.”

“Promise… but only if you promise never to wear an Elsa headband again.”

You both laughed again, and you snuggled a little closer to him. The day had been long, but in this quiet moment, everything felt just right. Together.

[rqbossman]

Hiya Sir Alex, sir.

May I ask how old are you? Sorry, if it came out too strong. Because you act/sound like you're in your mid 20s but out of nowhere you just say stuff like "Ah, yes. When I was a younger man, I used floppy disks and wrote with quill and ink". I mean you still look fairly young in my opinion. My working theory is that you're an immortal being or you moisturize to have a younger looking face.

Sorry, if this is too personal, no need to answer.

Lol you might be the only one who thinks I look younger than I am! So I am 35 meaning I grew up in the early 90s inheriting hand-me-downs from the 80s. (hence the floppy disk talk). I remember living pre mobiles, pre internet and even pre-computers in that I only knew one family that had one and they were all doctors. I also had a very "traditional" upbringing that even included ettiquet lessons from my father. (not joking). That said I have been online for most of my life and been making memes since before a lot of our audience was born. I also have a lot of younger relatives which helps. Lastly I think people in the creative industries just tend to give off that vibe in general. I have this theory that it's because none of us allow oursleves to act like adults until we've properly "made it" but since none of us actually achieve that we are left as perpetually adolescent in some respects.

Also I can't stress how immature I am in certain ways. I think I behave like a pompous teenager but look like a 45yr old dad with body problems!

[maxwellatoms]

Hello Mr. Atoms, I'm an animation student in college and fan of your work. I got this assignment in which I need to ask questions to a professional in the area. Could you pretty please answer them? It'd mean a lot to me.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

Okey dokey.

1- Are you happy with your career? How it's going.

Not really, in that there seems to be no career left.

The animation industry swelled its numbers greatly before 2020. Almost immediately after that, corporate greed synergized with a pandemic to reduce animated programs and the number of people working on them to almost zero. It takes almost a year from beginning to end to make a single episode of an animated show (by the modern standard). There was nothing being made in 2020 and four years later, we''re not in a much better spot. It's going to be a long drought for (especially) Kid's TV Animation.

Recently, many of my former co-workers have hit the financial wall and can't continue, moving away after (sometimes) 20 years in the industry. I begin to wonder if I'm very far behind.

A "bounce back" a year from now would need to start today. There are still some animated shows being made now, but those are almost universally "library" properties. That means it's an existing I.P. (Intellectual Properties like Garfield/Mario/Batman/Star Wars) so as an artist you're immediately in that box. Depending on the property and the studio, it can be an unpleasantly tight box. I grew used to holding and maintaining the vision for a show, but it's less fun when it's not my vision. It's even less fun when you can't inspire someone to follow your vision because they've been so ruthlessly abused.

I'm pretty sick of how big media corporations treat their employees. If I inherit one more burnt out crew due to mismanagement, I'm gonna lose it.

Over a decade ago I fought hard to get board artists story credit for the episodes they were actually writing, and felt like I'd won a big victory for everyone. The second my back was turned, it all reverted.

Mostly... what is the point now? My career is/was developing ideas, crafting those ideas into a workable show, then managing teams of thirty to seventy people to produce a couple of dozen episodes per year. Studios actively do not want new ideas right now, and are actively searching for ways to eliminate what artists from the process. I'm not sure what my job would be under this new system, but it feels like they decided to hang onto the anxiety-inducing deadlines while removing anything remotely pleasurable from the experience.

2- What are your opinions, expectations and hopes about the independent animation industry that's developing?

It's the only way to get anything done, currently.

The current state of the industry is not sustainable. I (along with a lot of other animators I know) are trying to decide what's next, and pretty much everyone agrees that "you just have to make something".

It is (in that very specific way) a great time to be a young animator. The system was never going to treat you well anyway. If you can get something like a Hazbin Hotel happening without studio help, you can currently write your own ticket. I'm super proud of Vivsie, because that's a LOT of stuff to handle. I never had to handle my own marketing or drum up money to make Billy & Mandy happen.

There are opportunities there, but it's definitely "Hard Mode". The best idea is probably to team up with a few other people you like and like to work with.

Hopes? I hope that the young animators take over and make something new on top of the bones of the old industry, rather than just allowing that industry to patch its rotting hide with their collected works.

3- What do you think about the advent of artificial intelligence? Do you fear for the future of animators?

I suspect true AI might just peace-out like ScarJo in "Her", but we're not there yet. What we have now isn't Artificial Intelligence at all (though I do believe it may be the underpinnings of the Artificial Suconscious of what may one day become an actual Artificial Intelligence.)

The LLMs and "Generative AI" are (so far) a big dumb waste. They consume tons of energy and aren't great for doing anything creative. If you've sat down with Chat GPT for a creative writing session, you've probably run into the "out of the box" limitations which prevent it from talking about sex or violence-- which happen to be a major component of most stories.

Still, the technology has come incredibly far in an incredibly short amount of time. I imagine we're going to hit the point where we're being hazed by artificially generated political ads way before Generative AI can produce a consistent and usable character turnaround, so that'll be the test. Whatever the legal fallout is from this stuff over the next few years will set the tone.

Still, studios have a vested interest in pleasing their shareholders. Generative AI potentially has the capability of not only replacing swaths of money-eating artists, but handing that control directly to the billionaire studio heads. Mark my words: We're headed straight for billionaire-generated content.

I don't think the public at large will want to watch Elon Musk's fever dreams, so there's that. So law and general distaste might stave it off for a while, but I think there's just too much impetus for studios to continue to try to please their investors. "AI Art" is here to stay.

Eventually that will lead to millions and millions of bots generating millions and millions of songs and paintings and movies all day every day. Most of it will be utter trash. Right now (so I'm told) viewers are already burnt out, and will generally only click on what they already know. On Netflix, where there are twenty things you've never heard of and one you have, you're more likely to pick the thing that gives you comfort and gives you a guarantee you're not wasting your time. With exponentially more A.I. trash, how would you even begin to filter it out?

You'd need absolute control of an already existing distribution system. We currently have a few of those, and all of the media companies are desperately trying to merge with them to insure their own survival.

To me, the post-Gen-AI landscape looks a lot like old-school Cable, but with endless I.P. and fewer masters.

4- If money wasn't a problem, would you still do what you do?

The real question is, maybe, "What am I even doing?" These days I try to do a lot of gardening. I'm trying to learn new art skills, because suddenly twenty five years of experience managing, drawing, and writing isn't worth much. I recently worked on Jellystone until Zaslav lost 2.5 billion in the wash and had to find justification for his new yacht. The show before that? Also culled midway through to save money. The days of multi-year gigs seem to be over, and if I'm going to scrape by doing freelance, maybe I can do that somewhere else.

I'll always make art. I can't seem to help it. Ideas aren't my problem-- it's executing those ideas without the help of a structured pre-existing system. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to pull that off. My strengths are great, but were always supported by friends I worked with.

Can I start an indie cartoon with all of these cool friends? Sure, maybe. Most of those people have gone on to have other careers of their own and got used to being paid. Now nobody is getting paid and no one can pay anyone else. My immediate circle are all now middle-aged people with families and no jobs. Convincing them to give up a large chunk of their day for an idea that's not guaranteed to pay off is going to take some real effort.

I technically have fifteen years until I can claim my "retirement", assuming that still exists by then. That's a pretty big hole to fill with... I don't know what.

The difficult "What comes next" discussions at home are really just starting.

5- Any animators you admire and would like to mention?

There are a lot of cool animation people out there. I already mentioned I was proud of Vivsie. I was also reminded recently just how great C.H. Greenblatt and Mr. Warburton are. I know they're my friends. They're both just really upstanding, creative people who take good care of their crews.

The treatment of animation industry professionals by the studio system has been one of the most demoralizing and heartbreaking parts of this demoralizing and heartbreaking time.

---

So there ya go. If you want to look for someone whose attitude is a little more upbeat, I won't blame you a bit.

Wherever you are, I wish you the best of luck. For me, just climb up there and crush it. I would very much like to add you to #5 someday.

[artbyblastweave]

This weekend I visited Brattle Books in Boston. The comics section was dominated by what appeared to be the inherited collection of someone who'd been an avid collector of niche and indie comic - lots of Titan Press books, 2000 AD, adaptations of pulp figures like The Shadow and Conan, and compendiums of old serialized newspaper strips. There was a ton of really interesting stuff on display (as always, this isn't the same thing as good) and only the fact that my freelancing gig recently evaporated like a snail in a microwave kept me from doing something really financially gluttonous here. I picked up an older Valiant Comics compendium, and a large-print copy of some of Gruenwald's later Squadron Supreme stuff. But the really interesting find- and the reason I specifically suspect that this came from a specific academic of some kind- was Super Duper Supermen! which was a 1990s reference guide to characters created as part of the homegrown British Superhero comics industry of the 1950s and 1960s.

The guide was written by the late British comics historian, writer and artist Denis Gifford, whose only output I recognized was his work on the Marvelman run that Alan Moore would revive and retool as Miracleman in 1982 (curiously, no mention is made of that project in this volume despite it post-dating Miracleman by a decade.) He firmly contextualizes the characters against their wartime and postwar production circumstances; many of the characters were created under rationing-imposed resource constraints that are extremely visible in the print and paper quality, and many were created because supply chain disruptions made it a giant pain in the ass to ship in the quote-unquote "real deal" in from America. A consequence of this is that more than half the roster consists of transparent knockoffs of Captain Marvel and Superman; unsurprisingly very few of the characters made it more than a couple issues. Even despite these limitations, some of the writeups have enough meat on their bones, conceptually, for a circle-back to be productive. Here are my five favorites:

Robert Lovett: Back from the Dead! One of two characters in the collection created while England was actively under the blitz, and accordingly, one of the most conceptually morbid. The titular Robert Lovett is a zombie who, in a macabre spin on Arthurian logic, emerges from his ancestral tomb to engage in a killing tear against Nazi secret agents and gangsters, all the while shocked and unnerved by the ways in which the world changed in the 113 years that he was dead. One of the few characters in the encyclopedia where I genuinely think that the basic concept needs no adjustment beyond execution on an actual budget. This idea kicks so much ass. I'm stealing this

Krakos: The Egyptian! The other blitz-era character in the encyclopedia, this one a flying Egyptian mummy who fights the Luftwaffe and sets Nazis on fire with his mind. This also kicks ass on the face of it, but there's also probably interesting analysis to be done of the implicit politics of an Egyptian superhuman, recently back from the dead, almost immediately relocating to and assimilating aesthetically into British culture. (The Egyptology of it all!)

Quicksilver: Wonderman of the West! Unique in that this one is a period piece about a fairly traditionally-designed superhero who lives as a hermit in the old west, emerging from his cave only to do battle against those who threaten to despoil nature. Called out within the encyclopedia as one of the first capes with an environmentalism gimmick, notable to me in that attempts to capes in the western idiom usually also attempt to integrate them aesthetically- but that wasn't actually a rule then. You could just do whatever.

Electroman: A pickpocket sentenced to death for a murder he didn't commit gains the Shazam powerset from the electric chair instead of dying, "has the mental sickness that caused his criminality erased by the voltage," and embarks on a career as a superhero. On top of the relatively unique gimmick of needing to electrocute himself to trigger his transformation, there's something politically fascinating going on with his origin; a criminal (but pointedly not that bad of one) getting unjustly put to death (but also having his ambiguous "criminal mentality" cured by that same unjust execution.) The postmodern revisionist spin about what actually happened to this guy, and what the golden age version was an attempted cover up story for, basically writes itself here, doesn't it? The government accidentally giving a guy superpowers while trying to kill him and then shakily trying to invite him back into polite society now that they're aware of the power differentials on display.

Captain Universe, The Super Marvel: Essentially a direct ripoff of Captain Marvel, with the twist being that CU is a UN physicist whose magic word is composed of the initials of famous astronomers, inventors, and mathematicians; every time he says it, he's implicitly petitioning for godly intervention from the laws of physics. This is.... conceptually fascinating, right? This is a post-modern Grant Morrison science-as-magic-and-magic-as-science pitch, forty years early. They absolutely were not putting that much thought into it but there is absolutely that much room for thinking about it.

Anyway, aside from those five (and Marvelman, who Alan Moore already got at) the rest of it is about what you'd expect. Everyone is taking steroids to become "Streamline, the fastest man alive!", or getting blasted by chemicals, or hand-picked by the gods, or experimented on by their fathers to be the champion of tomorrow (J. Michael Straczynski already skewered the ugly implications of that last stock origin in The Twelve.) It drips with -isms; racism, sexism, plagiarism, enthusiasm. It's a stark reminder of the shortcoming of every contemporary comic that's ever tried to do a stylized "golden age" flashback- the art simply doesn't suck badly enough. It's fun.

Anyway if you're in the Boston area the entire comics section at Brattle Bookshop is currently composed of weird little idiosyncratic deep cuts like this. There's always something there, and right now this is what's there.

[shiftingdisaster]

Whats in my bag?- 𝒮𝒫𝒩 𝒟𝓇

My bag is practically my lifeblood, I keep everything I could need in almost any situation in it. It goes with me everywhere, and I hate having to go without it.

bear pendant- wearing my pendant is one of the few solid ways to control my transformations, so I keep it close at all times.

dual 1911 custom pistols- I was gifted these two by Bobby when I was 17, they’re built perfectly to suit me.

leather journal(with pen)- Usually I keep one or two journals on me at all times, writing down any new information we might need or learn on hunts.

walkman, and cassettes- A handful of different cassettes all with entirely different vibes, I tend to switch them out for others in my collection every so often, but popping on my headphones and putting on a good mixtape right before a fight always makes them more fun.

burner phones- Got about 3 or 4 burners in my bag at all times, 1’s for any hunter contacts I have, the second is for any hunting related business(when we’re doing police or fbi shit) and the 3rd is one I keep on me at all times with only my family on it.

daggers- I have handful of daggers scattered around my bag, all a mix of silver and iron and a two of them with enchantments, to kill different creatures.

flask- An old flask I inherited from my dad, I don’t drink much but I do keep some (drinkable) holy water in it.

vintage cigarette case- While I don’t use it for cigarettes, and joints instead, I keep it stocked and in my bag. It’s an old habit I picked up from my dad, my older brother glares at me every time I pull one out but I sure as hell prefer it over drinking.

lighters- I keep a LOT of lighters in my bag, the amount we lose to salting and burning bones and just in general is INSANE.

cash- I usually keep a wad of cash in a bear skull themed money clip, instead of a wallet. while Sam and Dean prefer their credit card scams, I like physical cash much better.

digital camera- Even though I have as many phones as I do, I MUCH prefer camera pictures. Its good for cases and even better for my photography hobby.

swiss army knife- a silver and iron blade with all the different tools on it, i like keeping it in a small pocket close enough to grab quick incase I need to slip it up a sleeve to cut myself out of some binds.

map- small paper map all folded up to the side, makes it a hell of a lot easier to make my way around without gps

keys- I got my truck, Harley, house, and storage locker keys on it along with a devils trap and gun keychain, and a small vial of salt on it.

flashlight- much as the boys love keeping most their stuff in their duffle bags, I prefer keeping at least a few things for hunting in my bag. And having a flashlight in my bag is a hell of a lot more convenient than digging through my duffle for one.

chapstick- Burt’s bees peach chapstick. My favorite, and also the only chapstick I like using.

perfume- Peach and floral scented perfume, my signature scent. I keep it with me at all times to make sure it doesn’t wear off, gotta keep the signature scent signature.

ib: @jadeshifting !! Go check her out guys, I love her posts

[vaokses]

I worked the blade to make it deeper

Series Masterlist / General Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Nearly two years have gone by since you left with your mother for Dragonstone, and yet your absence is as sharp as the first day. Rumors spread through King's Landing about how a Tyrell knight has captured your heart, and these rumors haunt Aegon, from the Keep to the taverns, leading him, drunk and reckless, to a brothel in the Street of Silk. Not in search of comfort, or in search of some illusion of you to keep him company through the night, but in search of something else.

Word Count: 4.4k 

Warnings: 18+. Smut (slight). Prostitution. Dubious consent. Drunkenness, alcohol consumption. Voyeurism. Self-harming or self-destructive actions/thoughts. Aegon's head is not in a good place at all. Descriptions/Allusions to panic attacks. A lot of angst, just a lot of it. Hurt and no comfort. Allusions to bad BDSM practices. I write this with sub!Aegon in mind, by the way, I don't know how explicit it is in this work, but it's there, and I'm warning you in case it's not your cup of tea. If I missed any warning tags, I apologize, and please let me know.

Some AU/Setting stuff: Same universe as How long this love can hold its breath and the Pirtir series. This takes place nearly a year before the beginning of the story, around four or so months before the other Aegon PoV chapter. You don't need to read either to read this tho.

A/N: So, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. It mixes some of book!Aegon's approach to intimacy/sex because I find it really interesting. This is just a lot of angst, but his character is so fucking sad, I can't help myself. I'll write some fluff for him at some point, I promise.

Title is from "Love opened a mortal wound. In agony, I worked the blade to make it deeper." by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.

All of this would be easier if he could just forget, Aegon gathers. If he could just forget about you, about what he lost and what he didn’t have, then everything would be easier. The quiet of the Keep wouldn’t feel so deafening, the future ahead of him would be a tad less unbearable. 

And he wouldn’t be sneaking around like an idiot, eavesdropping on his mother and his grandsire’s conversation because he heard your name. 

“That boy will hand the Blacks the Reach if we do not step in,” Alicent argues, voice laden with worry. “His father is old, and he hasn’t inherited his judiciousness, his restraint.” 

“Lord Alisdair might still bend, once the Princess leaves Highgarden and his blood cools. Nothing makes a man as bold as a woman’s smile.” 

“Her smile, or the promise of her hand?” 

Aegon feels as if a weight had been dropped on his chest, and yet he does not even think about tearing himself away from here, about ceasing in his listening for any news of you. The closest he can get to you, nowadays. 

“No arrangements have been made yet, and if t-…” 

“My lord husband will approve if Rhaenyra asks this of him, you know this. He will wed her granddaughter to the Tyrell boy himself if it is her who asks.” 

“Has she asked?”  

A few beats of silence, the seconds before an executioner’s sword finds a neck. 

“It is a matter of time.” 

___ 

It is as natural as breathing, to Aegon, to escape the confines of the Red Keep by now, to evade his guards and sneak into the city.  

Now he sits alone -he shrunk from his usual company, he isn’t sure even why-,  nursing yet another jug of mead and chasing languidly for the welcome stupor of a stiff drink, and finds that not even here do you stop tormenting him. 

“My sister was there for the tourney in Highgarden,” A woman comments, carelessly loud as she speaks to the group of people sitting with her, a table away from Aegon’s. “She said the eldest of House Redwyne gifted the Princess a mare.” 

“As dragon food?” The man she sits on the lap of asks, prompting her to laugh. 

“I would like a mare as a gift,” One of the girls argues, at another’s scoff arguing, “What? What is wrong with that?” 

“The Princess rides Vermithor. What is a fucking horse against the second largest dragon in the world?” 

The wench that is sent to refill Aegon’s drink presses against him unnecessarily, and her hand traces over his shoulders as she moves away. He feels her gaze on him, watching raptly to see if he follows her with his own gaze, if he wishes to play along. 

He mislikes this, these games, playing pretend at seduction. It feels even more false than it already is, fucking a woman, if she likes pretending she wants something beyond the tenuous oblivion they can find in one another. 

“You gather she’s coming here anytime soon?” The man from the other table asks, diverting his attention to them -to you- once again. 

“I don’t think so. Everyone would be scurrying about in preparation. Whenever there’s something brewing up in the Keep we have more work months ahead.” 

“I hear she’ll summer in Highgarden.” One of the younger girls comments. 

The old woman’s laughter is shrill, grating. Gloating, almost. At least that is what it sounds like, to him. 

“Of course she is. Alasdair Tyrell has returned from the Shield Islands, and victorious at that. Made them swear to her cause, apparently.” 

“To Rhaenyra’s?” 

“No.” 

Silence follows the simple answer. Aegon motions for the wench to refill his drink, which she doesn’t do quickly enough. 

“Oh,” The man breathes. Short little chuckles escape his chest, and he praises, “Clever lad, eh?” 

“‘Tis quite a wedding gift, is it not?” 

Aegon takes fast, perhaps hurried, gulps from the flagon, but the mead isn’t enough to drown out their voices. 

“So she has agreed to it?” 

“She is a young girl, and he a knight who has more than proven his devotion. He doesn’t have her hand yet, but I’d bet he has her heart.” 

“So it isn’t just Vermithor she wants to ride,” The man boasts, followed by what sounds like a slap. “Ow!” 

“‘Tis the future Queen you speak of, you fool.” 

He should stop himself, but he doesn’t want to. Aegon turns to them and asks,  

“And the future wife of Lord Tyrell, no?” 

“My Prince.” One -or a few, he doesn’t really care- of them greets, and a few heads bow, but he motions their empty platitudes away. 

“It is a…a joyous thing, a betrothal. And one made for love, at that,” He smiles at them, but they don’t smile back. They look at him like he’s seen hunters look at cornered beasts, they look at him as if they’re afraid of him. “We don’t see much of those nowadays, do we?” 

“No, my Prince.” The older man agrees, still cautious. 

He isn’t an idiot, he knows that he wasn’t…that you don’t feel for him what he does for you, that you don’t think about him as often as he thinks about you. But some part of him, foolish and perhaps more than a little masochistic, still hoped the truth might be another. 

Still hoped, against hope, against reason, that you might one day return, that you might still choose him. 

“A cause for celebration then, isn’t it?” He asks, standing up and swaying slightly on his feet. Their faces are guarded, careful, and though he makes his best attempt at another smile, shameless and debauched, it seems they see through it. He pushes on, “Drinks for all! On me!” 

He plays along, he plays his part, for a while. The mead keeps flowing, and when it ceases, he switches to wine. Watered down and tasteless, but it washes away the ashes the memory of you leaves on his tongue. 

And the loud voices and cheers of the people in the tavern drown out even his thoughts for a while, but he finds that tonight the wine does not make his thoughts any easier to bear. It seems instead to make them louder, to make the ache deep in his chest sharper, worse. 

As the night goes on, his thoughts get louder and the crowd around him quieter as they return to their homes, and Aegon refuses to return to the quiet, the solitude, of the Red Keep. 

___ 

Long ago, years ago, he would come to places such as this and ask them to be soft with him, to hold him and treat him gently, to be what he imagined you would be -what he glimpsed at, what he had, for however short a while it was-, to grant him what he supposed he might have had, were you to have stayed. 

But he understood fairly quickly that it just made everything worse, that it made the absence much sharper, the emptiness gnaw at him with renewed strength; and so he started refusing them whenever they tried to offer anything gentle. They did it wrong, anyways, it just made him feel brittle and cold and alone, and he prefers the distance, and the oblivion it provides, over the hollowness that their false warmth leaves him with. 

The months and then the years went by, and you never returned, not even a glimpse of you and Vermithor on the distant skies, not even a short visit with your family, not even a fucking letter; and Aegon can no longer hold on to the fantasy that you might have wanted him, that you could have loved him. 

He gathers that it was for the better, that the illusion has shattered. It makes it easier, to find oblivion buried in some whore or another, to have his nights away from the Keep be the reprieve they ought to be. It makes it easier to make things quiet again, to lose himself when he can force his useless heart out of the way.  

But he often trips on it. His heart, that is. 

And sometimes his yearning overpowers his reason, and he finds himself searching for a shadow of you, a version of you that still wants him. Despite the ache and the absence, he still can’t bring himself to ask any of the women to pretend to care for him, to pretend to love him, anymore. 

He tells himself it is enough that they look like you when the lights are dim and wine clouds his senses, that they don’t say anything when it is your name he calls out. He tells himself it is enough to have this, and that to ask for more would be to ask to be torn open. 

But the absence remains, the hollowness remains, a void gnawing away at him, hungrier and hungrier the longer he indulges in foolish illusions, in tricks of the light.  

At his weakest, he asks them to prove to him what he already knows to be true. That you, fantasy or real, illusion or not, do not care for him, do not love him. That you, upon knowing what he has made out of himself, aware of what they will ask him to become, have come to hate him. So he asks them to hurt him, to refuse him, to turn away from him.  

He doesn’t understand why he does it, why he still chases after that when it leaves him just as empty as asking for anything else does. He doesn’t understand the part of him that finds comfort in his own ruin. 

He doesn’t understand why he comes here, why he is restless as he crosses the doors into the familiar brothel, why he feels his throat close up at the sounds and scents of this place, why his chest feels tight with something between desperation and dread as he sets out to…to do what it takes to make his thoughts stop, to make himself understand that he must forget. 

He finds the one he’s looking for fairly easily, long silver hair and deep red dress amidst a sea of heads of dark hair and half-naked bodies. Her back is turned to him, and the wine makes the sight resemble a familiar dream for a moment, and his breath catches. 

But when he reaches her and she turns to face him, the face isn’t a familiar one, the eyes are wrong, and the smile is a mockery of yours. 

He still extends a hand, wordless, to ask her to join him. 

It’s almost funny, that for all he despises his ancestry, what he has inherited; in the eyes of any of the patrons of this establishment he is but another Targaryen man, looking to get it wet only with the ones that, real or no, reflect the blood of a lost world. 

It is preferrable that they don’t know any better. He’d rather be his father’s son than the fool that yearns for a woman he cannot have. 

Aegon isn’t sure why he’s doing this, why he has come here, why tonight the wine has made the pain only sharper, more unbearable. He isn’t sure if he’s punishing himself, for being as stupid as to allow himself to hope you’d return to him; or if he’s just resigning himself to the truth that is, forcing himself to shatter with his own hands, before his very eyes, the fantasy of what could have been. 

But he wants this, he…he needs this.  

“And you,” He calls out, pointing to a well-built young man with warm eyes and chestnut hair. Quite close to a knight. Quite close to a Tyrell, even. Aegon offers him a smile, wide and lecherous. It is a lie, but it is one he himself believes, and the false merriment keeps him safe. “You will join us.” 

The man takes Aegon’s free hand, and he lets them lead him to a private room, of dim lights and of air heavy with incense. In the midst of the hanging curtains, the many candles, and the huge bed in the center of it all, Aegon feels for a moment as if he’s suffocating. 

“What can we do for you, my Prince?” The woman asks, voice low, sultry, dripping with false sweetness. 

A nauseating blend of anxiousness and dread rise within him, and though he reaches for the glass of wine on a nearby table, downing the drink in two gulps in an attempt to chase these feelings away, they linger. 

Aegon watches, numbly, as the man reaches for a pitcher and refills his cup without a word. It is welcome, almost a comfort, the weight of a full glass in his hand. 

“I…I want to watch,” Aegon admits, voice hoarse in what he absently hopes they confuse with lust. “The two of you. I want to watch the two of you.” 

There’s a chair near the bed but far enough, aimed towards it. He has the absent thought of how many must come here not for participation but for a show, and Aegon tries clinging to that small observation, amuse himself to thoughts of what others come to do in these places; but his mind, anticipating and yet dreading what is to come, lingers on the present. 

His gaze, unfocused and staring at nothing but the faint memories he wishes would leave him, cannot look at them as the man and woman undress and sit together in bed, looking at him.  

He cannot look at them, and yet he feels their gazes on him. He feels as if he were the one naked, the one on display, asked to put up a show. 

“My Prince?” The woman calls out, forcing his eyes to focus on her. 

She awaits instruction, and he finds he can’t give it. 

It is a painful reality, a mortifying truth, that he does not know how to offer softness, gentleness. Or how to receive it. Or how to witness it, even. 

In losing you, he gathers he also lost the part of him that knew of the softness of a gentle touch, that knew how not to shatter at the thought of warmth. 

And now he can’t even make this…this pretender, already a poor mimicry of you, portray your warmth, the gentleness of your affection; and Aegon cannot even witness a glimpse of the warmth and the softness that you surely now give freely to that fool on the far end of the world. 

It dawns on him then, that he has forgotten pieces of you, that he has lost part of you to time and to distance. And realization isn’t a weight dropped on his chest, or the ground giving in under his feet, no; realization is a slow pressure, a shrinking tunnel, an exhale that left him too late to realize he wouldn’t be able to inhale again. 

He grabs for the cup with shaking fingers, grips it so tight he fears it might crack, and downs the rest of the drink. But the numbness is escaping him, slipping like sand between his fingers, and the haziness has given way to something much worse, to a quickly-beating heart and thoughts chasing themselves in circles. 

And all the wine does now is make him feel as if he’s only further drowning, further losing whatever grasp he has at himself. He still drinks. 

What can he tell her? That he wishes to be hurt, punished, for his weakness, for his faults? That he wishes to see what he has lost, what he never had, what he never will have?  

That he wants for the thoughts to stop, for the pain to stop, and he only knows how to escape them with this, with sex; but the memory of you lingers too close, a knife wedged next to his heart, for him to even consider enduring another’s touch tonight? 

He tells her the truth instead, and if instead of a command it sounds like an accusation, he does not care. 

“You love him.”  

It is all the instruction he can give. He does not know what love looks like, what love feels like, so even if she doesn’t either and the act is a poor one, Aegon won’t know the difference. 

The man and woman fall easily into the parts they must play, pressing their bodies together and sharing a deep kiss, letting their hands explore each other slowly, with the pace of two people with all the time in the world, with the calm of those who have promised each other a lifetime. Aegon watches, and the nakedness of their bodies does not seem lewd, instead it betrays an intimacy, a warmth, that makes the void in his chest awaken with an oppressive sort of longing. 

Aegon’s gaze lingers on him, on the ‘knight’. He finds he cannot look away, and it isn’t jealousy that overwhelms him, or anger; instead, all that fills his him at the sight is dread, and morbid fascination.  

The man’s fingers are buried within her, his lips at her throat, and Aegon feels as if a knife were slowly embedded somewhere within his chest. With each breath, the knife digs deeper, tears further at an old wound, and yet he doesn’t look away. Instead, his breath quickens. 

And he knows it’s an act, that they’re playing at sharing a love they do not know or have, but he doesn’t know it or have it either, and sitting here he only feels more alone.  

But he cannot join them. Because you do not want him. 

After what he isn’t sure if it is a moment or an eternity, darkened gazes flicker to him, awaiting his permission, his command, to go on, with quickened breaths. Though for a moment Aegon finds himself staring back, unmoored and uncertain, he quickly recovers and stutters a response to go on with it. 

The man grunts a curse against her breasts as he enters her in one swift motion, and she sighs at the feeling, hoarse little moan rumbling past her lips as she adjusts to having him inside her. 

They start moving together, and though the sight before him is an objectively alluring one, and if nothing else he should be able to focus on the sounds leaving their lips, on the sound and scent of sex filling the room, Aegon finds himself not even slightly aroused. 

Then again, he didn’t expect to. He might enjoy pain sometimes, and perhaps even seek it, but seeing a mirror -however muddied, however imperfect- of the woman he loves making love to someone else is something out of a nightmare, not something he might enjoy stroking his cock to.  

He didn’t think it’d hurt like this, though. He feels useless tears stinging at his eyes, and his breath hitches, because he expected it to hurt, but he didn’t think it’d torture him like this. 

And yet he can’t bring himself to stop them, feels undeserving of intruding upon their -your-, however false, love. With a breathed little laugh that only further blurs the lines between the reality of two paid whores acting out what he wants and the mirages of two people on the far end of the world, the woman switches their positions, straddling him. 

Unprompted, the man sits up, mouths at her neck as she aligns his cock with her cunt again. Slowly, sensually, she starts riding him. 

Aegon sniffles, tries hiding a stuttered breath, and leans forward. What he means to sound like an order, like an instruction, is voiced instead as a plea,  

“H-…I want you to hold him, while…while you ride him. Hold him against you.” 

She does as he commands, and the sight of their embrace is enough to force Aegon to look away, flinch away from pain as sharp as a hit. He reaches for the pitcher of wine, movements hurried and jittery, and pours himself another glass, uncaring that it spills. 

He gives another order, another command. One after another. He tells the man, for he is naught but a lucky fool that doesn’t even see the fortune bestowed upon him, how to touch you, how to make you feel good, how to make you his.  

They lose themselves in each other, waiting for no further instruction, exchanging caresses and kisses and breathed moans as they move together, as one. 

Aegon feels his composure, weak and brittle as it was already, begin to crumble. His hands grip at the armrests of the chair and tears burn at his eyes. He’s trembling, but neither of them stop, because neither of you notice, because you have each other, and he does not matter. 

He shakes his head, tries thinking clearly past the daze of alcohol and grief, and reminds himself it’s them. They’re strangers, they’re pretenders. He clings to that reminder. 

And yet each whispered word that they share, each shared breath, each tender touch, it feels as if it’s mocking him, taunting him with what he cannot have, what he can only watch from afar. 

The effect of the wine and the tears spilling from his eyes blur the edges of his vision, making the already stifling room seem smaller, the air thicker. Each breath feels pulled from his lungs, his body at the command of someone else, because he still cannot look away. 

He understands better than ever why Helaena presses her palms to her ears when the crowds get too loud. He wants nothing more than to cover his ears, close his eyes, hide himself and get away. Why is he here, why is he doing this? 

He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want this to happen. And yet he can’t stop watching, why can’t he stop this? 

She’s close to the edge, he can tell, and while he needs for this to be over, he cannot stand the thought of it at the same time. 

It is unbearable, and he stands from that chair, not to approach them but to step away. The room spins around him, his balance fails him, his voice fails him. 

She clings to him, hides her face in the knight’s neck and away from Aegon’s view. She looks like you, and she sounds like you, and he lost you he lost you he lost you. 

“Tell him you love him.” The voice is his, but not really, and he hears it from far away, from somewhere beyond the panicked cadence of his breaths, from a dream in which it is your love for him that Aegon asks to hear. 

You bring your knight closer to you, hand tangling in short tresses of chestnut hair. Your mouth is close to his ear, your voice a breath, a promise Aegon knows he shouldn’t be allowed to hear,  

“I love you.” 

You shatter, and so does Aegon. 

Her cry of pleasure and the knight’s mask the horrified sob that leaves Aegon’s chest at what he has done, at what he has tainted; and in their shared ecstasy they thankfully do not see him squeeze his eyes shut and cravenly look away, face crumpled in agony. 

He stumbles back onto the chair, some absent voice in the back of his mind reminding him it is unfitting of a prince to fall on the ground, that the people cannot see him on his knees. 

He thought he’d be in control, that if he commanded them, if he was… 

His thoughts matter not, what he expected matters not. The fantasy, painful as it was, has shattered, and the jagged pieces of it dig into him like glass. 

Aegon slumps in the chair, his body exhausted and worn. He feels used, wretched, and despite the weariness consuming his very bones, his mind remains restless, agitated. 

And the silence that lingers after they are done is worse, almost. He cannot bear to look at them.

“You…you can leave,” He tells them. A breath, two, and with a rush of energy he doesn’t have, Aegon stands up instead. The movement feels uneven, exaggerated, and he grabs at the back of the chair to keep himself from falling over. With his free hand, he gestures at them to stay where they are, and corrects himself, “I-I will leave. I’m…I’m the one intruding, am I not?” 

They don’t laugh, so he does. Or he tries to, but what leaves him is this manic little sound, this choked sob. 

He moves to leave the room, but he stumbles over his own feet, and thankfully catches himself on a nearby pillar. He needs to get out. 

Everything is too much, too bright, too loud, too painful, and he cannot escape it. In his head still resonates the breathed I love you. 

Why would you say that to him? He…he’s nothing, he doesn’t… 

No, no. Aegon squeezes his eyes shut and reminds himself that it wasn’t you, it was her. The impostor, that…that poor mimicry of you.  

And he instructed her to say that. Why did he do that? 

He wanted to fill the emptiness inside him, to…to quieten it all for a few moments, he didn’t want…he didn’t want this. But the void within him grows, and it hungers, and it tears away at pieces of him, breath by breath. 

He stumbles out of the pleasure house on trembling legs, but doesn’t make it far before his labored breaths become too quick, too uneven. The air that enters his lungs hurriedly, stutteringly, over and over, still isn’t enough for him to breathe. 

Aegon staggers into a nearby alley, clawing desperately at the brick wall in an attempt to keep himself grounded, to keep himself from breaking, from falling. 

He still does, between labored breaths and memories that taste of ash, he crumbles under the weight of his disgust and his hatred at himself, at what he does, at what he failed to do; and falls onto the cold ground. 

Back against the wall of the empty alley, Aegon brings his knees to his chest, and hugs them close to himself, head bowed and eyes shut tight as he tries forgetting.  

I would love to hear your thoughts on this! My askbox is always open for questions or comments, and soon I think I'll be taking requests.

I should have waited to post this (I posted the first chapter of Pirtir today) but I couldn't help myself. This was so fun to write. I find these themes really interesting, and I want to delve into them again in the future. I have some stuff planned but they're still a bit further ahead in the posting schedule.

Thank you for reading!

[billthedrake]

LINEAGE (PART NINETEEN)

It had been nearly three months since I'd golfed with Todd Fiedler. I'd been busy as hell with home life and work life and didn't have much me time left. I insisted that Junior keep up his game, but I spent my weekends helping Braden out at home or doing overdue chores around the house.

Besides, a lot was going on in the Doctor's life. Somehow things had gotten very serious between Sam Fiedler and that cop who'd stumbled into the Fiedler house on orgy night. Officer Jake Kincaid. They were not only dating but living together in the fifth inhabited house in the subdivision. Sam had opted out of college and decided to get into IT computer stuff at a local company. I didn't see him as much, but when I did he seemed very happy.

I did worry how Todd would take his last son flying the coop. I didn't know if father and son fully broke up, but they had been boyfriends and now Sam had a new boyfriend, a serious one. But things had rekindled between Todd and his eldest Andrew, who was home for a gap year after college.

I watched now as Todd swung his drive from the tee. He was well pregnant now, in his third trimester, and showing in his knit golf shirt. I had my own sexual tension with Fiedler and his big belly wasn't doing much to stop that.

"Fucking hot isn't he?" Junior whispered to me.

I nodded, and laughed that I'd been caught ogling him. "Totally," I said truthfully. "Men just look better pregnant," I said crudely.

Junior flashed his smile and nodded toward Fiedler, "I did that, Dad."

Fuck, I was completely boned.

Andrew Fiedler had grown into a hunky young man, too. 23 years old, he had inherited his father's and grandfather's handsome, dark complected looks. He was looking at me with the same kind of lust I'd been feeling toward his dad.

I deflected that, though. "So... how was the trip?" I asked. He and Todd had just gotten back from a month in Europe.

"It was awesome, Mr. D...." he flashed his pearly smile. "So much honeymoon sex."

"Son!..." Todd exclaimed, half admonishing, half laughed.

The college grad shrugged. "What, Dad? It's true. I thought you wanted to announce it."

"Announce what?" Junior asked.

Todd gave a smile of his own and stepped up to his son, placing his thick arm on Andrew's shoulder. "I proposed to my son, guys... and this amazing man said yes."

Junior was all smiles. "Course he did, Doc... congratulations, guys!"

I gave my congratulations, and clapped Doc's shoulder, shaking his hand and Andrew's before drawing them into a quick bro hug. "So happy for you," I said. I was, too. I mean, I had a hundred questions I wanted to ask, about where Adam Fiedler, Todd's Dad fit in. But that could wait.

"Wedding's not till next May," Andrew said. "But we want you guys there."

"Wouldn't miss it," I said.

****

On the drive from the club, it was like there was a spell over me and Junior. We were quiet and pensive.

"I'll talk to your Daddy," I said finally.

Junior nodded, excitement in his eyes, but caution on his face. "Dad... we don't have to... I don't want you to feel pressured."

I cut him off. "I'm not feeling pressured into a damn thing. I love you, Junior, and you're having my son. Some things are complicated, but some things are simple as can be."

"I love you too, Dad," he said.

I sighed. "I just... well, when your daddy and I got married we didn't have anyone to share that occasion with. I feel bad we didn't."

Junior patted my leg. "I trust you, Dad," he said.

I looked over at him. Apple of my eye. Become my partner as much as Braden in a way. Hot as fuck with his baby bump and his fit body. "OK if we pull over to our favorite spot, kiddo?" I asked, a lump in my throat and one in my crotch. We had a secluded turnoff in a local industrial park that was our go to for a quickie when running errands.

Junior grinned and opened the glove compartment. There was the trusty lube, the one I'd used with Steve the fellow football dad. I had a good feeling Junior and I were going to do more than jack off now.

We parked. Maybe we'd get in trouble one of these days, but the spot really was deserted and hidden from view.

"Fuck Dad," Junior said as he undid his seat belt and leaned into a soft kiss.

****

The triplets arrived a little early, but I was proud as hell of Braden for making it well into his eighth month with them. My son-husband was strong as an ox, I decided when I saw him get back to his normal energy within a week after delivery.

The rest of it was as tough as I imagined. I became an expert at changing diapers, at getting a crying baby to sleep and at warming Braden's pumped milk. Junior was, too, and I felt proud of how we was stepping up, but also bad he was spending his Fall after high school being a full-time parent to his little brothers.

"It's OK Dad," he said one night as we cleaned up after dinner. "I gotta learn this stuff. Bill III will be here before you know it." Indeed, Junior was starting to show, to really show. It was the amazing stretch of pregnancy when I wanted to bone Junior nonstop. We did find time for sex a good bit, though maybe not as much as either of us wanted. At least, Braden's recovery meant I didn't feel like I was neglecting my husband's needs.

The big surprise is that Keith got really into looking after the twins. "I figure I get to have a little more time with my little bros," he grinned when I asked him about it. Evan was more focused on football and high school social life - he hadn't wasted time getting a girlfriend - but he still did videos for Braden's Instagram account as my husband did his video diary of fitness recovery after childbirth. I didn't know what I thought about Brade becoming a celebrity in a way, but the monetized funds coming in would help. Already we had a nanny lined up.

I hadn't had an argument with Brade in a while, but we had one when I gave Evan an ultimatum. He had to get his grades up or I wouldn't pay for private school any more. They had a top-shelf football program and already Evan was making friends, so he resented that threat. Braden thought I was being too harsh, and even Junior gave me the cold shoulder, siding with his little brother. But I stuck to my guns.

Things kind of blew over when Evan got his next report card. He may have resented me, but the threat worked.

It wasn't the healthiest moment in our marriage. Brade and I never talked it out. But we slept in the same bed each night. I made sure not to spend those nights with Junior while I was still in the dog house. That was important to me, to be with Braden even through a rough patch.

Then, a month in, just before Thanksgiving, Braden's sex drive kicked in. We fucked three times that night, and Brade sucked on my dad cock between each round. We made out, like we used to, like when we started. We talked about our growing family and the love we had for each other. And then I'd enter him again.

Evan teased me the next morning for sleeping in, and I'm pretty sure he could read it in my face.

"Your dads needed to catch up," I said, the double entendre clear. I fixed Brade a coffee and a bagel to take to the nursing room where he was feeding the triplets.

****

The other men in the neighborhood helped out. The Newcombs, the Connors, and the Fiedlers were all on rotation to come over and baby sit or just chip in. Doug and Eric Newcomb's arrival had changed the dynamic, as had Junior's knocking up Todd Fiedler. Looking back it was a real turning point. No longer was it a couple of families. We were a real communiuty now. Incest Acres, though our subdivision had a proper name, Oakwood Court.

I gave Junior and Braden explicit permission to play with any of the other men whenever they wanted. No special playdate needed. I think only Junior was taking advantage of that, since Brade and I were still in reconnecting mode.

I gathered the other families were opening up, too. The Connors were the most hesitant, but even Frank gave up his virginity to Doug - the airline pilot was that incredibly handsome and persuasive.

Incest Acres now had its non-incest pairing of Sam Fiedler and his cop boyfriend Jake Kincaid. An older police officer lived with them part time, forming a roleplay family from what Todd described.

One night as I cleaned up after dinner, Braden walked in, barechested and nipples puffy from nursing. The milk made the muscle of his pecs look even fuller. "You got this, Dad?" he asked.

"Yeah, buddy," I said. "I'm good. You rest up."

He looked at me and leaned in. "I'm too tired for sex tonight... if you wanna check on our neighbors..."

"Which ones?" I asked.

"Your call, Dad." He grinned. "I think Junior's champing at the bit for a group scene." Leave it to Junior to open to his Daddy about things he didn't want to bring up with me. Like the old times.

"Been a while," I reflected.

"Yes sir," Brade said.

"I want you there, next time," I asserted.

"Definitely."

I sent a couple of texts then went to Junior's room. He was watching some show on his computer and had to pull his headphones off.

"Yeah, Dad?" he asked.

"You feel like making a little house call to the Newcombs with me?" I asked. It wasn't hard to pick Doug and Eric. We still hadn't had a nice Drake-Newcomb hookup, since the birth of their son Calvin.

"God yeah... now?"

"Yeah, now, if you're ready."

He got off the bed, dressed in his preppy golf attire, like he often was, the knit shirt stretched out now. We'd have to buy him some new ones, maybe keeping these for paternity wear in case.... all right, I was getting ahead of myself.

The Newcombs lived two houses down. Eric answered, wearing only a jockstrap and a Nebraska ball cap. "Hey Mr. Drake, hey Junior." Eric was one of the few younger men to call my son Junior rather than Bill. "Come in."

We followed him, and I could see the slickness of lube in the crack of his smooth buns. A lot of it.

Junior noticed, too. "Looks like you guys have already started the fun," he teased.

Eric laughed. "Yeah, Dad's a horndog tonight. Cal is finally sleeping for more than a couple hours at a time."

We'd barely stepped into the bedroom when Eric made a beeline for the bed and snuggled up to his naked father, who was looking very relaxed and content, other than a slick erection that looked in full excitement and need.

"My favorite men..." Doug grinned in his gladhandling way. "Brade couldn't make it?"

I shook my head, kicking off my shoes. "Next time. He sends his best," I replied.

"Probably for the best," the airline pilot said, running his hand along Eric's strong shoulder affectionately. It was wild to see Eric's strapping ex-running back body seem needy in its curled position against his father. "I'm doing my best to knock Tiger up again."

It was like Eric's complete being was centered on his father that night and we watched them kiss softly, Eric's big mitt reached down to stroke his Dad's boner. He finally pulled back and I could hear him whisper. "You're gonna do it, too, Big Man."

Doug laughed and looked at me and Junior. "We're doing our best for Irish twins. This dude was ready."

Junior had already stripped but spoke up. "We can give you your privacy, Doug... come back some other time."

"Plenty of room in this bed, right, Tiger?"

"Yeah, Dad."

They scooted over. "Besides, I need some recovery time before round three."

It felt easy and relaxed and exciting at the same time. Me and Junior connecting next to the Newcomb men. We made out as those guys did, before Junior slicked up my hardon and straddled me. As he settled down I ran openly over his pregnant belly.

"He's really showing," Eric said with a grin. The ex-jock had a boner in his jockstrap but it was clear the sex for him that night was about getting his father's sperm inside him.

Junior nodded. "Fuck yeah... getting real big with Dad's son."

"Our son," I corrected him.

Junior rode me a little harder. Not bouncing roughly but definitely horny now. I watched his amazing body then looked over at Eric copy him.

"God yeah, Tiger," Doug hissed. "Sit in Daddy's lap. Yeah, like that."

"Got your big bare cock in me, Dad," Eric said as he sat all the way down. The previous fucks had relaxed him completely.

"We gonna make a kid together, Eric? Give Cal a little brother?"

Eric nodded, the excitement visible even beneath the brim of his Nebraska cap. "More than one, Big Man." He now rode that father prick with steady swivel motions of his hips. "Give you a whole litter... like the Drakes."

"Fuck!" Doug hissed, excited by that idea.

I looked up at Junior. He was turned on by the sex talk but I could see fear in his eyes. Like I'd want more than one son from him. Maybe that would happen, maybe it wouldn't but he definitely wasn't ready to be like Eric or Braden. I patted his outer leg and winked.

"I'm just proud of my boyfriend for giving me this... a gift of a grandson with him."

Junior nodded, taking in the words but also the feeling of my cock against his prostate.

We let the boys ride us and took a break to cool off. I took some time making out with Eric, while Junior made out with Doug. Then we switched as I scooted toward the DILF pilot and met his soft kiss while Eric and Junior bonded.

"I'm glad you could be with us tonight, Bill," Doug whispered. "Here when Eric and I make another son."

"Damn Doug," I replied, feeling turned on and emotional. "You really have embraced the incest."

He smiled. "You said it best, Bill. Once you leave the guilt phase behind, it doesn't come back."

Doug was fully recharged now and I was getting into blue balls territory. We went back to our father-son pairings, missionary this time. I entered Junior first then heard the penetration of Doug into Eric next to us. We fucked, focused on our sons, only I felt Doug's hand nudge against mine. I took the cue, circling my fingers into his grasp. We we thrust into our sons and even as we came, I held my friend's hand and felt the bond of incest brotherhood between us.

****

The following weekend I had Junior take duty with the triplets while Brade and I had some alone time. It wasn't date night, maybe but it was just two hours to ourselves, in our marriage bed during the day time, as my son and I made out.

"I need you in me, Dad," Braden said finally.

I reached for the lube. "Do we need to start discussing birth control again?" I asked. I was concerned the triplets had taxed Braden's childbearing drive. At the very least I wanted to give him a break.

But he shook his head. "I don't wanna, Dad. I'm not very fertile these days, but let's just let what happens happen, OK?"

I nodded, so turned on. He was so beautiful. The one bit of Brade time he'd found was to keep up his gym routine, and he was still hard bodied, a DILF at 42, though I shuddered to realize that meant I was in my late 50s now. There were those strong arms and that meaty chest, capped with puffy nipples.

"OK if I have a taste, Son?" I asked. With triplets Braden really didn't have a lot of spare milk to go around and his tits were often sore from the feeding anyway. But he was horny now.

"Fuck yeah, Dad," he hissed, offering his pec to me.

I licked and suckled. I was out of practice but soon had the knack. I was soon rewarded with the sweet taste of his father-milk. I sucked a little more then went over to the other tit. "God, Dad... so hot..." Brade hissed.

A little would have to do, I decided. I was dripping and hard now, even without the lube, so as I lifted Brade's legs to my shoulders and pushed in, the entry was slick and easy. I gave a slow steady pump.

"Love you, buddy.... man of my life..."

"And Junior, too..." he said.

"And Junior I admitted. I'm the luckiest Dad in the world." I was now fucking deeper.

"I'm the luckiest Son in the world. Always felt that way."

"My fuckin' Daddy's boy," I grinned, really getting into the sex but also the intimacy of the moment. It could be hard to keep alive with a long marriage, but Brade and I still had it. Still had that burning flame for each other.

"We made an incest family, Dad. We're still making it."

"Setting an example for the other incest families, buddy," I growled.

Brade seemed to think that over. "You think the other guys are gonna follow suit?"

"The Newcombs definitely are," I replied. "Eric's ready to keep popping them out."

"Like I was," Braden said, his eyes on me, turned on. Cock hard like he was afraid to touch it.

"You you still are."

"Fuck yes, Dad," came his deep voice. Louder. If anyone was outside our bedroom they could hear us now. "Gonna keep giving you sons. Healthy, strong Drake sons."

"It's gonna be hard for me to stop knocking you up." My dick was feeling REALLY good inside Brade. Even if he wasn't very fertile the idea I could impregnate him was getting me closer.

"Don't want you to stop, Dad. For real... only..."

My thrust got more intense. Braden was in the headspace to enjoy that and his hands grippied my arms as he rode the pleasure of his prostate.

"Only what, buddy?" My voice getting low and sexual.

"Only... if you let him, I really want Bill Junior to knock me up next."

"Fuck!" I hissed. Yeah, we'd talked about this, bedroom talk. Maybe it was become more real to us as an idea. "You want our first son to impregnate you?"

Braden nodded, close to cumming himself. "I do, Dad. And our other sons when they're older."

That did it. I powered in and started cumming. Braden just had to touch his dick and it was firing off too.

"Jesus," he hissed as his body gave it up. I held still and watched his aftershocks beneath me. Finally, I let his legs down and backed out. When I first started fucking Brade, I'd often enjoy seeing the creampie I'd left in his hole, as a kind of conquest trophy of my own son. Now, I didn't need to see to know I'd seed him real good just now.

We lay side by side in the afterglow, caressing each other's bodies and looking lovingly at one another.

"Did I go too far, Dad?"

"Clearly not," I said. "I came like a motherfucker." Junior's sailor mouth was rubbing off on me.

He laughed but shook his head. "I mean for real... would you let Junior knock me up?"

"I'd love to give that experience to you. And to him," I said.

My finger now softly circled his nursing tit. Junior's would get like this soon, too and that knowledge had my cock hard again, already. "I've been scared to bring this up with you, Son. But I want to propose to Junior."

He sat up some in bed. A look of surprise on his face. "Yeah, Dad? Bill would love that."

"I know he would," I said. "But would you?" I was laying it all out there.

"You're still my husband, right?"

"100 percent, Brade."

My son seemed to think it over and replied. "We're already making it work, Dad. You're man enough to give us the affection we both need. There's give and take, like with any marriage. But I thank the stars each day I was lucky enough to be incest married to my father. And I, dunno, I want Bill Junior to feel that, too."

"So I have your blessing, Son?"

"You do, Dad," Braden replied. "And it's not tied to the pregnancy thing."

I grinned. "I want my men happy. And this is a weird thing to say... but Junior needs to breed. He's meant for it."

"Not weird at all, Dad. It's the truth." His own dick was hard as he said those words. He reached over and stroked my dad hardon, spreading the leftover lube and cum before he straddled my waist with a grin and reached back to guide my dick back inside him.

****

The timing never seemed right. Junior entered a moody stretch. While he was great at helping out with the childrearing and household chores, the tasks started to overwhelm him. Maybe he was worried what life would be like after Bill III was born. And while Braden had relished every part of pregnancy, even the bad parts, as a reflection of our incest relationship, Junior was adjusting psychologically to his body going through changes that were unfamiliar and scary. I tried to get Braden to comfort him or be someone to go to for talking about pregnancy. Maybe that helped, I don't know.

But the eighth month was easier for him. Physically he was tired, but he could see the light at the end of the tunnel and he was anticipating the birth of our son.

It helped that I couldn't keep my hands off him. We had sex every day now, even if was just a blowjob or JO together. Fucking him with that big pregnant stomach was off the charts hot, though. And Junior responded to my amped up lust and attraction. He initiated sex, even when he was tired. It was like he was addicted to my affection and my sexual attraction.

It had been months since Junior and I had a date night together. So he was thrilled that I arranged a trip down to Florida to catch a PGA tournament. He objected we really couldn't leave for the weekend, or that it cost too much. But I insisted. I wanted a getaway before the birth of our son.

The warmth was great, and getting away from the infants and the household chores was great. But the thrill was us bonding again over golf. I could see Junior's drive for the sport hadn't gone. He had plans for keeping his skills honed this next year. Brade would help him with post-pregnancy workouts, and he had an hour or two of driving and putting practice planned each morning at the Club, in addition to his regular rounds. I loved how excited he was about it.

And that excitement turned to parenthood and our next phase of life together. We had a nice long conversation over dinner that second night.

Afterward, we strolled along the waterfront, hand in hand. Passers by didn't know we were father and son, but we were clearly an intergenerational couple, and clearly I was the dad of the baby growing in Junior's big belly. I loved that, loved being on display for the world.

I stopped and looked at my son.

"What?" Junior asked.

I got down on one knee and pulled out a ring box. It was a simple gold band, matching the one on Braden's finger. "Junior... I'd be honored if you married me."

"What about...?" he started to ask. Wondering about his Daddy and where he fit in. But he realized I wouldn't ask without having that covered. "God, Dad," he said softly. "I'd be honored to be your husband."

I stood up, proud and excited and kissed my son deeply, holding him tight. I never wanted to let him go. "Oh, kiddo," I hissed before we kissed some more.

When I pulled back Junior had a huge smile. He was on cloud nine, even more than I anticipated. "I guess it's time to revise Dad's Rules, huh?" he kidded.

I took off his ball cap and ruffled his hair. "Guess it is, kiddo."

He leaned in. "Maybe we can do it after my fiancé Dad fucks me," he growled into my ear.

I slipped his cap back on and patted his strong back. "Like minds, kiddo...." I gripped his far shoulder and pulled his tall body into mine affectionately. My turn to lean in to whisper into his ear. "We're gonna fuck more than once tonight, Stud.... Dad's Rules."

[asofspades]

Okay, this is the first part of the shared item analysis for the LU boys, in going to be bringing research that includes not only the existence of the same item either by direct name or function on different games, but also I bring insights into where they're found or how they're obtained when I think it's relevant.

Starting off with the boomerangs, now, Legend (Alttp, OoS), Hyrule (LOZ1) and Four (MC) all have magic boomerangs, they're literally named "Magic Boomerang", while their designs don't look too similar to one another I think we can still consider them to either be Four's magic boomerang changing over time or just the Tingles continued making magic boomerang across the ages (that's how you obtain it in MC).

However, I've noticed (acting like I haven't been in the known since I first played Wind Waker at 15) that Wind's boomerang is quite literally the same as Four's, which makes me think that it might actually be Four's magic boomerang that got to Wind. Here's Four's magic boomerang (MC) and Wind's boomerang (WW):

If you know me you know I think Wind inherited a lot of stuff from Four that he doesn't know about and that he just assumed it was from the Hero of Time because they're called stuff like "Hero's bow" "Hero's Shield" and they only know about time due to how impactful he was for their timeline, yet Four was in fact a hero too, and he comes way before Time so I guess his stories were lost with old Hyrule but some of his items stayed.

Now that we've cracked this conection between Four and Wind, let me make it even clearer with some more examples of items and a little extra fact:

The mirror shield from MC is the exact same you get in Wind Waker, in fact, Hyrule Encyclopedia uses the sprite from Wind Waker for both of them when they want to avoid using the pixelated sprite from Minish Cap, which means Wind currently has in possession Four's mirror shield. Here's both shields in game:

Another thing they share is the small shield, at the begining of the adventure in Minish Cap, Zelda wins Link a small shield, now, in Wind Waker grandma gives Link a shield they keep in their House that belonged to "a hero" (Hero's shield), we all assumed it was the Hero of Time, but actually it has the same design as Four's small shield. Now, I think Wind is actually using the lobster detail shield from Phantom Hourglass in Linked Universe, which is very similar to the small shield, however we can't deny that Wind has inherited a fair share of stuff from four and we're not fully done here yet. Here are the small shield and hero shield from left to right:

Now, another interesting connection I've found between Wind and Four is the bows, in MC you start with a regular bow and upgrade to a Light Bow that shoots light arrows, and if we follow the design it's the same one used in Four swords Adventure by Four but it's also the same as the Hero's bow Wind uses in Wind Waker, which means that he got Four's bow as well and not only that, but the fact that is was a light bow might have helped Wind channel his light energy into it to use it as a light bow as well as a regular bow. Here are the bows for MC and WW:

Now I'm bringing you another item of Four that wind inherited, his Smith's Sword, when you start out the adventure in MC, link's grandpa gives him the sword he made for he winner of the sword tournament, and obviously as the story progresses you switch it for the white sword that ends up becoming the Four Sword. However, it's not out of character to think that Four would've kept that sword like a treasure, it accompanied him at the very beginning of his first adventure and it was made by his grandpa. And now to get to the point, in Wind Waker you're also given a sword by Orca when you start out your adventure, along with he Hero's shield, which is called the Hero's Sword. They're remarkably similar, enough for me to think they're the same and they were kept, wether it is familial bonds that tie Four and Wind or just a family deciding to pay respect and keep the weapons of a previous hero, I like both options. Here's the swords for a side by side comparison:

From left to right: Smith's Sword (MC) Hero's Sword (WW)

And last but not least, this is just a little thing I've noticed but the second link with the most relation to the wind element, using the Ocarina of Wind and having a sword made out of the element of wind among others and a part if him that is the closest to a personalisation of said element, is Four. I just find it cool that they share that connection and frankly offensive that no one else has made it before and there's no fics about it that I know of🥲.