#god she cannot look at him without being ENAMORED he just smiles a lil and she’s like 😍

[gonegrove]

Thinking about Steve bewitching Heather with his big brown eyes and boyish smile. Like she’s literally the meanest bitch in Hawkins and he’s just so babygirl that it borderline tames her (only kinda and pm just with him). Like so bewitched by his pretty lil face and preppy wifeguy boyfriend vibes she goes Literally Insane and is like, a good girlfriend and even gets as sappy and shmoopy as he does. Like doesn’t even realize how this mid ass midwest malewife has completely enthralled her until she’s wearing an engagement ring and staring down a framed sears couples photo complete with matching outfits.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Πραξιδίκη (Snippet, Vοσταλγία AU)

Πραξιδίκη Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Per request of a lovely anon, I am posting this lil snippet of a Nostalgia AU I have on the works, that diverts from ~Ch8 of Nostalgia, and takes a lil bit of a spin on the Reader and Ivar’s relationship, plus works as a different route for the myth retelling.

Anyhow, a much more wordy explanation of this AU is on this ask, and when I start posting this story I will explain the changes, I have planned to rewrite Chapter 8 to fit this canon and then it is all new chapters.

This snippet takes place a little bit into the story, but it is still towards the beginning of Praxidice.

His hand on yours is the only thing that keeps you walking, and you cannot help but numbly think that is exactly what the chains he had put on you did. They kept you walking, towards where he wanted you to, as slow as he wanted you to, at his side as he wanted you to.

A touch you easily pretend to accept feels so alike an iron shackle that it takes everything in you not to pull away, not to shield yourself from the jarringly gentle touch that burns more than the flames of Eleusis ever could.

Ivar turns to you, the sudden dread that he has noticed the change in you making your blood ice for a faint moment, but all he offers is a smile, enamored and unaware.

You return the same, and if your smile is a tad more fragile, if the corners of your lips tremble just slightly, then you hope he blames it on nervousness and nothing more.

He takes you with him to the center of the room, but your eyes linger on the throne. You wish you could say it is your ambition that keeps you with your gaze trained on the symbol of power, you wish you were enough of all the things they say you are -witch, queen- to hunger for said power. You wish you could look at it and think of becoming the most powerful woman in Kattegat, and not how you will be giving Ivar power over you by accepting to sit on that throne.

When the throne is empty, when the temple burns.

The Greeks died alone and leaderless, their Anassa having told them to go forth without her. The throne of Attica, if there ever was one that you could have sat on, lies empty; and all that there ever was of Eleusis, of your home, is ash and dust, not even embers any longer.

When the witch reigns.

A witch with no name in some field in a world past the sea made Ivar the Boneless stop a war for a chance at meeting her again. And you choose to claim not only the throne but the heart of the king. Let them speak of foreign magic, you will be safe from them by fear, and from him by love alone.

“We will be fighting the sons of Ragnar,” Narses states, stealing a glance towards Sieghild, who only looks at him with piercing green eyes. “Anything you can tell us? Any…advice?”

“Yes,” The shieldmaiden promises, nodding her head to herself, “Don’t do it.”

You cannot help the chuckle that leaves your lips. He truly should have known better than to ask her.

“Thank you, Sieghild.” You tell her, to which she only smiles and bows her head in recognition, smugly pleased as she leans back on her seat.

Later that night, as Narses bids you goodnight with a soft squeeze of his hand on yours that you do not hesitate to shrink away from, Sieghild approaches you and signals with her head for you to walk with her.

The ground under your feet is harder than the one back home, and yet softer than the one of the Roads. Even then, with Sieghild walking calmly by your side, the ground remains familiar, as familiar as the Roads, as familiar as Greece.

“You once asked me what you were fated for, if the Gods had made all that has happened happen for you to meet your Fate,” She starts simply, looking ahead. “Your Fate lies in Kattegat.”

“Not this again.”

“The Seer t-…”

“I don’t care,” You interrupt, voice a snarl. “I don’t care what your Gods wish to make out of me, I make myself.”

“The witch is dead,” Sieghild states, not acknowledging your words. Or maybe she does, and you just don’t understand. “The witch that reigned is dead, has been for years.”

“Then your Gods are not summoning me there.”

“They are,” She insists, towering over you as she comes to a stand before you, rough and inked hand offering a caress of your face. “Tell me, little one, do your Gods speak to you?”

You asked her that same question so many times while growing up, wishing she had answers to the pain you experienced and witnessed, wishing she had reasons behind the way the world was beyond the greed and power of men.

She never had answers, and now that she asks you the same, you understand why. If you name things, you make them real.

“They guide me,” You tell her. The look on her inked face, the silence that follows your words, makes your eyes fall closed. “They are just dreams, mother.”

“They never were.” She promises, sorrowful yet proud.

Behind your closed eyes the dream that has haunted you intermittently for years comes forth unbidden, and you are surrounded by the soothing lull of a fire, looking into eyes blue like the sea, eyes that make you realize this, this is how people drown. You should have never feared fire.

When you step forward it is not the shackle of his hand holding yours that makes you do so. You step forward yourself, and it somehow feels as if the ground before splits open in two.

There’s no sound past the rush of blood in your ears, but absently you know he is proudly claiming you as his bride before his people, you know there are words about who he will make their queen and his wife leaving his lips. You know he is sealing your Fate.

There is no going back, there is no outcome of this where you are not bound to him, before his Gods and your own. If you are honest, you don’t wish for there to be one.

Your mother told you to survive until spring came. And you hope you understand her advice. You hope she meant to make the world that you have been forced into something you can be safe within, the man that abducted you and forced you to be his someone you can be safe from -someone you can make use of-. You hope that if she didn’t mean any of it, at least she can forgive you.

Sieghild bellowed that she had taught you better when you gave up your freedom for the taste of the war Narses promised to fight for you, she insisted you were born to fight and that you should have. She taught you better, but you made yourself. And you will fight, but you don’t need a sword to do so.

So you sit next to Ivar on the seat next to his throne, and play the part.

His hand still stubbornly holds on to yours, fingers absently toying with yours as he drinks from the horn of mead.

“What do you Greeks…do?” He asks, adjusting his body so that he is properly facing you. “When you are to be married, what is it you do?”

“I’ll have you know, Ivar,” You start, feeling his name like ash on your tongue. “I am not yet married, and have not married any Greek men.”

“Still, you must know what it entails,” He protests, ignoring your playful attempt at diverting the conversation elsewhere. Taking a more direct approach, he runs his thumb over the knuckle of your fourth finger, “Do you exchange rings?”

Acid churns at your stomach at being reminded of home, of your people’s customs and traditions. Still, you offer a smile that you hope doesn’t remind him of cracked porcelain as much as it does you.

“We don’t. We have dexiosis,” You explain, lowering your eyes to your joined hands, somehow bothered and yet not bothered at all at the contrast. “We make a pledge over joined hands.”

You feel his eyes on you, and as a slow smile curves at his mouth, Ivar lifts his brows, the command silent but still not subtle at all.

Moving your hand so that your left hand and his are joined palm to palm, and shrug your shoulders. Really, that is all there is.

“We make vows over joined hands,” You recall. “An Anax joins hands with the Gods, a wife with her husband, a friend with another, a warrior to his leader. A sign of a deal.”

“A deal,” He repeats, blue eyes piercing on yours, “What for?”

“Hm?”

“What…what are you exchanging?” He presses, eyes searching yours with an edge of intensity that surprises you, that makes your heart beat a tad faster in your chest.

You scourge your mind for the memories you hold of the unions celebrated in Eleusis, and explain, “A wife offers loyalty, trust. Love, if they are idealists.”

“But what do you offer?” He presses, making you wonder if he…no, he believes you.

“I am to be your wife, am I not?” You retort easily, the soft curve of your smile drawing his eyes to your mouth and his mind to the words you say, and away from anything else.

His hand parts from yours to reach for your face, the faintest of holds on your chin as Ivar brings your lips to his.

His mouth moves against your slowly but never lazily, licking along the seam of your lips, making you part your mouth with a soft sound. He doesn’t waste a moment, and with the same hypnotizing diligence his tongue slips into your mouth, exploring your mouth and claiming more than that.

You surrender to the spell of feeling his lips on yours, to the warmth of his hand on you and the electricity he sends through your body at the faintest of touches. It is easy to.

It isn’t as easy to ignore the hungry part of you that almost wants to push back, to get him to rid you of lies and rid him of anything else but thoughts of you. It isn’t as easy to ignore the way your chest pulls tight at the soft, dazed look in his endless blue eyes when you pull away.

It is later in the night when he returns to the topic of dexiosis, stubbornly insisting on making your heart struggle out of your control with this strange curiosity for the land that in part made you who you are.

“You said an Anax joins hands with your Gods. That is what you are, is it not?”

“Anassa. A woman is an Anassa, a man an Anax,” You correct, and with the mead making your thoughts slightly less sharp, you continue, “Not that there are many women with such a title.”

“You don’t like it?” He asks, annoyingly perceptive to even the slightest change in you it seems. “The title, you didn’t want it.”

“It was never my ambition, no,” You tell him, and it is true. All too easily, you find yourself offering truths, even if they are the faint grains of sand that fall from your hands. “Crowns seem heavy, they make it seem like I’d have to bow my head down all too often.”

Granted, Ivar is making you the most powerful woman in Kattegat, and even if he weren’t, there aren’t many that can make you bow your head and accept -even if performative- submission. You know this, and you know while the crown of the Kingdom of Kattegat will be heavy on your head, it won’t be for the reasons that the one of Anassa of Attica was.

There is a reason you never wanted to become a wife, even if being so would have kept you protected from the worse of men’s wrath. There is a reason you felt the words resonate within you when Galla snarled that more women are lost to marriage than they ever were to war or famine.

You never wanted to belong to anyone. If you are honest with yourself, you never wanted to belong to anywhere either.

But maybe, just maybe, having Ivar be yours far outweighs the danger of promising him that you are his.

“You won’t have to, not here.” He promises you. It is all to easily to make him offer you whatever it is your heart wishes for, and that alone is a better promise than whatever leaves his lips.

“I know.” You answer, and the soft touch of your fingers over the side of his face is yet another step of a part you must play, but the shaky smile that curves at your lips when his eyes flutter shut at the touch isn’t.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I know it’s not very good but idk, I tried. Sending you my love!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless​ @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​ @the-a-word-2214​  @fae-sedai​   @crazybunnyladysworld​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​ @aprilivar​ @msrawog​  

[a-flickering-soul]

do kylux for the ask meme 😳 you + me = mental illness

i love you so much for sending this in this truly is the mortifying ordeal of being known

putting this under a readmore because it is LITCHERALLY 1.2k words because i am literally clawing at the walls of my enclosure about these two

ANYWAYS go ahead and send me a character and i’ll give you some headcanons bc im having fun doing these!!!

Kylo Ren

Sexuality Headcanon: ambiguously queer. Don’t make me think about him having sex he makes me so angry

Gender Headcanon: he Must be a cis man. He has so much mommy issues. He is such an incel. He is so full of toxic masculinity. He must be a cis man.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux. Every single angle you take this ship from it’s funny and good. Canon—they hate each other and want each other dead. AU—they still hate each other but they’re (probably) less fascist and genocidal. It’s just so funny. They are so obsessed with each other. They gaslight each other into love confessions. It’s unreal. I’ve been thinking about Kylux for the past month and I feel like an entire geological age has passed. You can tell I’m a Kylux shipper and a R*ylo anti because I almost exclusively refer to him as Ren instead of Kylo. The gay angel went to superhell for Kylux to go canon in Lego Star Wars (twice) and a kids’ comic book. God mocks me to my face.

A BROTP I have with said character: This got literally shot to shit but post-TFA when a bunch of people headcanoned Rey as Luke’s kid and she and Ren were cousins and he reluctantly babysat her because he was literally ten years older than her (hhhhh.) and they had this weird mildly-contentious relationship as adults where they grudgingly acknowledge they are both the most powerful Force users in the galaxy and are the only ones who mutually understand the legacy they bear and care about each other but also cannot be in the same room together and hold a civil conversation for more than five minutes before resorting to uncomfortable silence. Like when you’re at a family reunion and you’re automatically shunted with the only other kid around your age so you have to make conversation but you are just so fundamentally different there’s nothing to talk about. Unreal.

A NOTP I have with said character: Hhh. R*ylo. I’m one of those evil lesbians who hate that ship viciously and one of my dreams is to be one of the mean antis that that bully a shipper in a story that’s clearly exaggerated or made up and then get cancelled for having good taste.

A random headcanon:  I think he and Phasma used to spar a lot. I keep thinking about the five years he spent on the Finalizer pre-canon and I can’t reasonably justify the Knights of Ren hanging out with him for the entire time on a literal military ship and I like the idea of them being the only people that are reasonably on par physically (I also like how Phasma is an inch taller than him because....whew).

General Opinion over said character: God. He drives me wild. I have a lot of thoughts about him and how good he was in TFA and the pre-canon comics/novels as a really fucking good example of a morally-conflicted villain (especially the comics where it made it really clear that he was very much manipulated and gaslit since like…ten years old). Like! The way he could flip at will from drawing strength from both the light AND dark side of the Force is just!! So cool! The way his strength literally derives from moral conflict is just really interesting to me but….idk the way post-TFA he was thrown into a redemption (Rendemption) arc that hinged on Rey being a literal genuine fascist sympathizer made me just really disappointed. He had a lot of amazing potential to be either a really interesting semi-redeemed Byronic antihero OR a full on unhinged animalistic power-mad villain that Rey has to mercy-kill like a rabid dog. And then. Well. Yeah. I like him a lot in very specific contexts and flat out hate him in most others.

 Armitage Hux

Sexuality Headcanon: gay! He is gay! I have an entire list of reasons why he’s gay and it grows daily! Without a doubt a homosexual! Gay and repressed!

Gender Headcanon: Also a cis guy even though I still do have a lot of half-formed thoughts about gender in the First Order/post-collapse of the Empire society.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux! Again! I’m obsessed with how obsessed Hux is with Ren. He hates him so much it’s unreal. I keep reading the novelizations and thinking so fucking hard about how consumed Hux is with hatred for this one man. He’s so repressed. He’s so damaged. It’s unreal. The brainworms in my head have metamorphosed into moths and they’re flapping their wings so hard they’re disintegrating my grey matter. I think near-daily about how he personally went down to retrieve Ren from the collapse of Starkiller Base and yet would not touch him to drag him to shelter in the Hux graphic novel. Would you take off your glove to check his pulse or would you attempt to feel it through the leather and touch something’s dead skin rather than his living warmth. I’m so deeply unwell.

A BROTP I have with said character: Him and Phasma!!! The way they are on first-name terms with each other….the way one of the few times in the graphic novels you see him smile is when Phasma comes back onto the base…..the way they plotted to kill Brendol together….truly evil mlm/wlw solidarity you simply love to see it

A NOTP I have with said character: Oof I see a lil bit of shipping him with Resistance members (I think I’ve seen him with Rose and also Poe??) and I know TROS made the decision to have him defect from the First Order (out of. again. his obsessive hatred with another man. writing choices.) but it makes me INSANELY uncomfortable seeing people of color being shipped with a literal fascist parody of British colonialism and imperialism lmao like….just ship Kylux bro they’re mutually bad people AND a power couple

A random headcanon: Frankly at this point I joke so much about how much like a sick Victorian orphan he looks like that I could write an entire fake medical file for him but I’ll spare you all and simply say that I am incredibly partial to the headcanon that Hux is a freak that bites string cheese instead of peeling it like a normal person. Also…the implications that he Personally placed the tracker in Ren’s belt rather than someone else, so that he alone could keep tabs on him…..I’m unwell. Enough.

General Opinion over said character: If Ren is a character I love to hate, Hux is a character I hate that I love. I just. I can’t stop thinking about this gay little war criminal. It truly, genuinely baffles the mind how much information there is about him. It triggers that same little part of my brain that goes wild over like. ARGs and stuff. There’s just so much lore. With every new piece of canon or semi-canon information I learn about him I can feel my grip on sanity slipping. He owns a black robe. He has a personal hitman in the First Order ranks to poison people he doesn’t like. He drinks tea. He’s a bastard son. He’s great with kids. He was in charge of a squad of feral orphan child soldiers at five years old. I just. I just don’t get it. I’m enamored with him. His compulsive attention to grooming. His hubris. His ambition. How literally unhinged he is (the “rabid cur” line genuinely lives in my head rent free). The way he systemically killed every single person who saw him weak and abused as a child. There’s just so much to talk about with him. He’s so evil. He’s so fucked up. I love him so deeply. He is such a horrible person and he is so fun to make fun of and he is so fun to think about. God wants there to be a bullet in my head so badly.

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

Nuffink (or: “How Nuffink Got His Name”)

When their second child is born, it doesn’t all go as it should - something goes wrong. Astrid is left weak and sick, having lost a lot of blood due to complications during the delivery. The baby is a healthy boy, Gods be good, but Hiccup can’t focus on that because of the fact his wife is lying in bed, dying as a fever overtakes her; he has never seen Astrid look so ill, so unlike her usual strong self. Their daughter is kept away from the house, staying with her Nanna Valka whilst her father worries and withdraws; even at two-and-a-half, Zephyr finds herself worrying too - about her mummy and daddy, about the new baby.

Hiccup finds himself praying to the Gods, begging that they do not take Astrid from him; he has already lost his father, his best friend...he cannot lose her too. He knows that he will be lost without her by his side, without her smiles, her intelligence, her bravery, her support. He doesn’t want to live in a world that does not have Astrid in it. He sits by her side all day and all night, hoping that she will get better - she has to. His council - Snotlout, Tuffnut, Ruffnut, Fishlegs, Eret, Gobber, his mother - all band together and do their best to take over his Chief duties for the time being, they alone being the few who know exactly what is wrong. The rest of New Berk knows something is wrong but can only rumor and whisper as they wait for the Chief to tell them himself.

Gothi visits regularly over the following few days, doing everything possible to get Astrid better. No method or medicine is overlooked - there are herbs, mixtures, practices she tries, and everyone waits with bated breath for something (anything) to work. She also checks over the baby in the meantime, confirming that he is indeed a healthy and strong boy, if a little on the small side from being early.

After three and a half days of worrying, of sleepless nights, of praying diligently, Astrid wakes. She’s weak and exhausted, but she smiles at the sight of her husband, laughing quietly when he clutches her to him. “Not getting rid of me that easy,” she jokes. He’s so relieved that he can’t help but laugh too, tears streaming down his face.

When Astrid is strong enough to sit up, they bring the baby to her to nurse; some of the midwives hesitate and suggest that maybe she should take it easy, that one of the other mothers in the village do it instead. Astrid merely rolls her eyes and brings the babe to her breast pointedly. She is then quiet and astounded by the baby boy, running a finger over the tufts of blonde hair so like her own, and she loves him so much so fast. Hiccup is slightly sheepish that he hasn’t seen the baby much in the last few days, but all of that falls away when he sits by his wife’s side and gazes at their son in awe. He has never had his breath taken away like this, except for when their daughter came into the world and changed his life just two and a half years previously.

Zephyr is finally allowed to visit too, now that Astrid is better, and she is impatient to meet her new baby brother. She checks for herself first that her mother is okay, reassuring herself as she cuddles up with Astrid, and then her brother is brought into the room. She grows very quiet, wide-eyed as she peers at the bundle her father holds in his arms.

“Small,” She says finally, voice a mere whisper, and then, “Love baby brother.”

The family sit there for some time as the baby fusses, wanting a feed and screwing up his face until he gets it. When he’s settled, Hiccup realizes something.

“You know, we haven’t got a name for him yet,” He states. “Got any ideas?”

Astrid shrugs and frowns, unsure herself. ‘Stoick’ - the name they had decided on should the baby be a boy - doesn’t really fit their small, blonde son, and they both know it.

Half-joking, Hiccup turns to their daughter and picks her up before putting her in his lap; she giggles at him. “What about you, little lady? Got any ideas?”

Zephyr shrugs too, not really concerned. “Nothing,” she says, though it comes out as “Nuffink”, because of her lisp.

Both of her parents laugh quietly and fondly at this. Encouraged, she giggles again. “Nuffink!”

“Call the baby, ‘Nothing’,” Hiccup jokes, deadpan, and he shakes his head in amusement when she nods. “We can’t call your brother ‘Nothing’, Zeph.”

“Nuffink,” She says again happily, looking at her brother. Neither of her parents take this seriously, still laughing between themselves when Valka comes to collect Zephyr for the night, just to give them both some more time to adjust to the new baby.

As Valka carries Zephyr through the village, they’re approached by the former dragon riders, who dote on her at sight. Zephyr revels in this attention, particularly when Snotlout puts her on his shoulders and lets her steal his helmet.

“So?” Tuffnut asks expectantly. “What’re they calling him?”

“Baby,” Zephyr says before Valka can explain there’s no name yet, and the little girl beams with excitement. “Nuffink! Baby Nuffink!”

She giggles at her own joke, and the adults are all amused. After a moment, Tuffnut muses “Heh, Nuff-ink. Hey, that’s actually a good name!”

Ruffnut nods in agreement. “Yeah - he could be one of us, Tuff!”

It becomes a running joke by the next morning; whenever anyone asks what the Chief’s new baby is called, someone replies “Nuffink, according to young Zephyr”. It spreads through the village like wildfire.

Hiccup goes to greet their friends in the morning, only to find himself face to face with several people eager to see “Nuffink”. For a moment he’s confused - and then he realizes and is astounded. “That’s...That’s not his actual name.”

“Yeah it is,” Snotlout informs him. “Zeph said so.”

Hiccup tries to convince his friends that his newborn son is not in fact called “Nuffink”, but his friends don’t listen.

“Zeph’s next in line, right?” Tuffnut reminds him. “Whatever she says goes.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that his friends take orders from his two year old daughter more than they do him, it really shouldn’t.

“It’s not his name,” Hiccup insists, mostly because he knows Astrid will murder him if he doesn’t make this clear.

“Then what name did you pick for him?”

“Well...Nothing ye-“

“So it IS Nuffink!” Tuffnut interrupts triumphantly.

“It is NOT-“

But they’re all talking over him. Hiccup deflates, sighing as he turns to go back into the house. He is not looking forward to explaining this to Astrid. In truth, they still haven’t been able to come up with any other names, and they can’t keep calling their son “the baby” forever.

And so it sort of just starts to stick.

“Nuffink!” Zephyr cries when she comes to see him again, excited and laughing happily.

“Nuffink is so cute!” Fishlegs gushes when he comes over that afternoon, unable to contain himself.

“Aww, lil Nuff is sleeping,” Tuffnut says to his twin.

Ruffnut nods in agreement. “Hey, we should make him an honorary -nut - Nuffnut!”

Astrid nearly throws them both out of the house right then and there.

Unfortunately, it starts to catch on with everyone else too. Gobber visits with a small toy hammer, exclaiming he’s excited to see little Nuffink. Eret visits with gifts too, and when he’s allowed to hold the baby he grins. “He’s a chip off the old block, Hiccup - Nuffink will do us all proud.”

Even Valka starts calling him that, much to Hiccup’s chagrin.

“Mum, no...”

“Oh, but it suits him, son,” She tells him cheerfully, enamored by her new grandson. “It has its own charm, don’t you think?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” He mutters for himself dryly. “I mean, you did call me ‘Hiccup’.”

“And you turned out to be the strongest of them all!” She reminds him fondly, and he feels his annoyance drift away slightly.

Soon enough, even Hiccup and Astrid are calling him that - it just happens, despite them trying not to give into it.

“Well, at least he won’t have to live up to anyone,” Astrid sighs, swaddling their son in furs to keep him warm one morning. “Nuffink...well, we can make it work. We’ll make it great, won’t we, Nuff?”

Nuffink gurgles happily at her, quite unconcerned. She smiles, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead as Hiccup chuckles fondly at her.

“There are worse names,” He reminds her. “He could be a Hiccup, like me, or...or a Snotlout.”

She narrows her eyes at him, though he sees the playful smirk tugging at her mouth. “We are never - and I mean never - naming one of our children after a Jorgenson, Hiccup.”

Hiccup laughs, and she laughs too in amusement. “Well, thank Thor we can agree on that, at least.”

Perhaps it’s mostly because their daughter picked it, but they both grow to love the name quickly - almost as quickly as their family grows to love their son himself.