#he can make growth happen! for his son!!!!!

[ilikekidsshows]

"Adrien using the wish" anon here again!

I was just thinking of the potential counter-argument based on rhetoric I've seen floating around, of "But because Adrien is so reliant on Marinette these days since he hardly has anyone else/lost both his parents (true), he'd be emotionally devastated to lose her (also true), so this means he'd...be willing to make the wish/wouldn't be able to handle life without her (ehhhh no)." Tempted to use the wish? Sure, I'd be surprised if he wasn't. Forever unable to live without her and/or willing to turn into the next Hawk Moth? Yeah, no.

Adrien being the next Hawk Moth only makes sense if you know nothing about the characters and decide to go with the most surface level 'like father like son' plot-line ever (which also explains why I see poorly executed 'villain! Chat Noir who sides with Hawk Moth' fics waaaay too often for my taste).

I know the idea that he'd be able to heal after losing her doesn't sound very "romantic" (I have different opinions on love and what's truly healthy and romantic but that's neither here not there), but...like I said before, he's already proven he can handle loss? If you give him enough time? If he coped with losing his mother with almost no support, something tells me he'd find ways to heal from losing Marinette, too. He does have a better support network now after all, such as it is. There's no reason why he couldn't even...find new friends and develop a new one, need be. Hell, I just remembered the boy has already said "if you wanted to dump me, I'd understand" in Illustrhater. Tell me that sounds like someone unable to move on from her.

Also sidenote, but being able to heal would be what's best for him as an individual (and a sign of character growth and a contrast with his villain father who very notably couldn't and wouldn't move on), but since that doesn't focus on Marinette being the center of the universe, I get why it's not popular with Marinette stans.

In before I'm wrong and the show has him trying to use the wish despite all evidence to the contrary, because only ~romantic love~ and/or Marinette truly matters apparently

Instead. To be honest, at this point I'm full on expecting something will happen to Adrien one day, something severe or even permanent, maybe caused by Marinette's lying or some other mistake, to the point she will try to use the wish. Parallels with Gabe and all that. Her already over the top and questionable behavior all in the name of not losing him, yadda yadda. Don't know if they'll go this route for sure, but...the foreshadowing/potential is there.

I laughed at "mouthy amphibian" btw. 🤣 Thank you so much for the response!!! And apologies this two part rant got so long, I've just been really annoyed by this and didn't want to keep silent any longer.

---

I totally get it. It's a complete misunderstanding of what Adrien's character stands for, the little bit of character growth he’s actually been allowed even as the writers try to drain anything interesting about him away to make him less popular. Frankly, with the writers' disregard of their characters’ personalities, their obvious disdain for the very idea of Adrien having concerns outside of Marinette and their very obvious belief that Marinette is the center of the universe, I would not be surprised if they actually did write Adrien unable to deal with losing Marinette. After all, the biggest concern of any sympathetic character should always be Marinette, unless them not prioritizing her is going to be milked for Marinette sympathy.

Realistically, in terms of what has been established about Adrien's character, he would be heartbroken to lose Marinette, but he could survive her and move on and find new happiness. However, also realistically, in terms of how the writers operate, Adrien's personality doesn't matter if they want to throw the ultimate pity party over how sad and pathetic everyone would be without the most amazing, wonderful Marinette. Ignore how a lot of them would be better off without her with how exhausting the writers made her to deal with.

If Adrien got to move on, the shippers would be so angry at him for “not loving Marinette enough”. There's this idea in media that moving on from loss is healthy as long as it's not the main romantic couple. Romantic couples should never move on, because that's more dramatic and so romanticized, just like codependency is so popular because it's more dramatic and so romanticized. And, like, I’m not saying I don't see the appeal, I enjoy the occasional codependent relationship in my media. But, that's just the thing: my media. I’m a grownass adult with critical thinking skills and emotional skills. I don't wanna see that shit romanticized in cartoons made for preschoolers with neither of those skills. Anything in between there is a case-by-case basis the parents should probably be responsible for depending on how much harmful behavior is being taught to youths and how mature the youths watching and reading that stuff are.

I used to call myself a Mudkip during my iconic “Mudkip with Juniper Lee hair” profile pic era in a cheeky “but what do I know, I’m just a Mudkip” way. I figured amphibian works, since, among my changing user pics, amphibians are the most common.

[touchmycoat]

Scum Villain’s Survival Guide where it’s Shen Jiu as the transmigrator. SJ gets tracked into this “Make The Target Happy!” mission system and is so resentful that at the end of every success he pulls the plug and ruins his target’s life, and it’s not technically against the rules is it? But now he’s gotta go back and right all his wrongs—there’s the demon lord he betrayed and killed, the war hero who thinks he’s an alien agent who betrayed humanity, etc. etc. At the end of the day it’s all about growth—he panics at the thought that he’s responsible for another person’s happiness so he’d rather crush it himself. Righting every wrong involves actually baring a part of himself and it’s mortifying and horrifying to let someone else choose to love him.

[missescalientee]

Finally revealing one of my other blorbos, Niccolo Sonata! A mixed genre troll who poses as a Pop Idol up until world tour

He's a complicated bag, he's half rock half classical, his mother kind of low-key hates him, and his dad does care but is kind of paralyzed with various anxieties that comes with the fact that Niccolo is half classical (worried about his constitution and his wings) and things related to his mother (she doesn't want Niccolo to become like his dad and puts a lot of restrictions on him)

Both of his parents don't really know what to do with him, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He has a lot of internalized hatred towards himself and the two sides of his musical families, plus he is a secret third genre (symphonic rock) which he doesn't fully understand. He got picked on a bit in Volcano Rock City, they're a lot rougher than he's used to so he just kind of took it, which is why he looks so roughed up in one pic and the other he says they hate him in VRC

Again he's really complicated even tho he doesn't look it, if you have questions about him lmk

[wildsaltair]

do y’all ever think about how Maximus’ main joys are things that involve creating and nurturing life? he’s a farmer who loves tending crops. he’s a husband who adores his wife and probably wanted to have more children eventually. he’s a father who adores his son and wants to raise him. his leadership techniques are encouragement and kindness. he treasures the lives of family, his men, and even his enemies to a certain degree.

and still, he is constantly expected to kill and destroy simply because he’s good at it. I can imagine he joined the army because, like most young boys, he saw the glory and excitement of it. he’s a natural born killer with his foresight in battle and his ability to size up opponents in an instant. he’s brilliant at what he does.

but. that’s not what makes him rise in the ranks everywhere he goes.

as a soldier, it’s obvious he’s won the respect and loyalty of his men because he is honest, devoted, and caring toward them. he does not cast them into battle as pawns; he rides alongside them and supports them as equals in battle. Marcus wants him to be the next Emperor because he knows Maximus’ nature is not to be power-hungry.

even as a gladiator, it’s his refusal to kill Tigris that really puts him over the top in favor with the people. they love him for his ability to kill, but even more for his choice not to. he befriends his fellow gladiators instead of seeing them as obstacles to his freedom. he treasures the memory of his family by carrying their statues with him everywhere he goes. his last act of killing Commodus is not just to get revenge and set the city to rights — it’s protecting and nurturing the life of a little boy who reminds him of his own son, the grandson of the man he thought of as his own father.

and I just think there’s something so powerful in the way everyone recognizes Maximus’ humility and kindness and mercy just as much as his courage, prowess in battle, ferocity, etc. he stands out because he doesn’t glory in killing, he doesn’t relish in destroying lives. he mourns life lost. he longs to live peacefully and foster life.

how tragic? that it’s people’s obsession with his natural skillset that prevents him from doing what he wants most?? Marcus won’t let him go home, Commodus won’t let him go home, Proximo forces him to kill, the mob loves him when he kills.

and how ironic? that they all recognize his goodness and refuse to let him live accordingly? how ironic that all he wanted to do was be kind and the people who recognized that still forced him to be harsh?

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP fanfic Idea: Gotham Gossip

Meta-human rights are a touchy topic in Gotham. While the city is known for Batman's view on them, it's also known for Bruce Wayne's viewpoint.

The Dark Knight did not welcome Metas, while the Light Knight worked tirelessly to employ charities and programs to support Metas. Both men- if Batman was a man- influenced Gotham so intensely that their viewpoints became the face of the public.

Even people outside of Gothman learned what "Are you a Dark pawn or a Light pawn?" meant when it was spoken about during national debates.

Really, it was no surprise that Batman and Wayne got caught up in a rather explosive public argument over the subject. Or rather, Wayne yelled at Batman during a hostage situation when his party boat got taken by a group of masked men.

Thankfully, Batman was able to save everyone on board, and although he didn't stick around to argue with Wayne, it was noted that Batman seemed intrigued by a few of Wayne's passionate rants. A few reporters were excited to point out there may be a chance of growth within the vigilante, but it was overshadowed by gossip rags that used this incident to make up a wild rumor of Wayne being a bitter ex with Batman.

This rumor runs for months, with various people posting online proof of a relationship. It sparks debate and anger, with other people responding by fact-checking and countering the "proof." Eventually, the argument moves away from Meta-human rights and falls into celebrity gossip, which has Wayne steaming.

People ignore his passionate activism to better the lives of Metas, only watching his speeches, marches, protests, and donations to various charities to gain new proof of his nonexistent romance that may or may have been in his early twenties when he mysteriously vanished to see the world.

That's when the video comes out.

A young teenager wrote a song parody of what was happening. A soft acoustic guitar accompanied his short words, accusing the masses of caring more about a wealthy man's pants being on or not than the lives of his people.

This young teenager is Danny Fenton, a known meta from a small town in Illinois. This quickly turned into people attacking the boy, who released another song using the hateful comments as new lyrics.

Wayne reposts one of his sons, claiming it a masterpiece, which is when one fan notices the similarities between the two. She makes a post talking about how Wayne and Fenton could be father and son as a joke, expecting people to take it seriously.

Overnight, the internet finds out that Fenton was, in fact, adopted into his current family after being surrendered at a fire station anonymously. More and more people started to notice the similar features between the rich man and the small-town singer until a video of Fenton using his powers was leaked.

Fenton's power is invisibility. This resembles another well-known Gotham dweller who can appear and disappear through the city's shadows. It's not long before Fenton is being called the love child of Batman and Wayne.

It leads to so much media attention and harassment aimed towards Fenton that Wayne steps in. He offers to take a paternity test to finally put the rumors to rest and let the young boy vanish from the limelight (should he stop writing songs).

The only problem?

The test is positive. Wayne is Fenton's biological son. The whole nation loses their minds when it's leaked by a very regrettable intern at the clinic where the test was done. (To be fair, the intern's email was hacked, so when she scanned the papers for herself, they were able to steal them)

Worse, Joker thinks it would be hilarious to kidnap Wayne's newly discovered son and, on live TV, give him another paternity test against Batman. The clown is laughing hysterically while his men prepare the results, only to become more gleeful when it's a match again.

Fenton is the son of both the Dark Knight and the Light Knight. It matters little that Batman's DNA is slightly messed up, as various people already suspected him of not being human.

This just proves Fenton is not a meta-human but rather half-human and whatever the hell Batman is. Joker is having a ball reading out the results, proclaiming he would help Fenton meet his biological grandparents with his one guarantee.

His words are cut off when Fetnon- unknown to the viewing public- escapes his bonds and swings an axe from the emergency fire station inside the aged wearhouse at Joker's neck. The clown collapses to the ground dead, the boy bathed in his blood, and the half-finished joke is cut off by the sound of choking blood etching across every screen in Gotham.

The remaining goons and Fenton stare at each other in stun silence while one is brave enough to rasp. "But Batman doesn't kill."

"Do I look like my absent father to you? Besides, Joker venom is a war crime. I'm within my rights, and if I'm not, I would have killed him again anyway."

Fenton quickly outshines his fathers in the public's eye because no matter where one stood on the Meta Rights, everyone stood on the "Kill the Joker" debate.

[agatharkn3ss]

Nicky's Rio son too.

I feel there were so many lines that imply this and the finale is starting to make more sense - especially because the dandelion in the trial!

Jen explains that Green Craft™ is about the cycle of all living things - growth and decay in constant flow. So it's not just about dying but being born too.

So it would track that Rio's love for Agatha was so strong that it actually created life - Nicky. However, there would be consequences to this because proper balance had to be maintained somehow. Rio probably even warned Agatha about it, but Agatha always believes she is above the rules so in her head she probably thought she had every right to Nicky (maybe even her "prize" that she alludes to in their final confrontation). This would really add to Rio's hurt - Nicky was her son too. She thought she was giving Agatha a gift of life, but instead Agatha sees her as this cruel "evil" that "gave her nothing". To her Rio is the one who just "took."

It feels like it is also implied by Rio at the start of the episode when she says "This walk with another woman's son on a road that doesn't...". She could be referring to Nicky being her son.

But I think Agatha finally accepts her truth during the final trial when she sees the dandelion seed in her cameo. She even says "Out of Death - life" as she grows it because she finally understands the literal implications of that phrase.

That Dandelion is representation of Nicky. And sure enough, as soon as the flower grows and blossoms, it quickly enters the final stage - when it turns into the seeds that can be scattered by the wind again and continue the cycle of life. Because guess what, "dandelions produce seeds asexually by apomixis, where the seeds are produced without pollination, resulting in offspring that are genetically identical to the parent plant".

When Nicky is born, we could probably assume it was indeed asexual reproduction - Agatha says she didn't use a spell or incantation, but instead he was made from scratch (obviously a clever nod to his name). On one hand it could be read like Agatha is astonished how something this magical could happen without actually using any witchcraft. However, this also feels like a suggestion that maybe she is just amazed at how he could possibly exist. Kathryn Hahn in her recent interview alluded to how the witches didn't need men, babies were just born. So it was Rio's "dandelion seed" that made it happen.

It is the second characteristic of dandelion species is what seals the deal for me - "the offspring being genetically identical to the parent plant". Nicky as the offspring of Death needs bodies to survive in this realm. During his birth Rio says she can offer only time, because she can maintain the balance, as long as Nicky gets his bodies.

That's why she hates Rio and calls her evil - not because of Rio herself, but because of what her "genetics" did to Nicky. Agatha would rather have people believe that she is this evil witch killer that traded her child for the Darkhold, than anyone to know the awful truth that it was Nicky who was the cause of the killings.

In the flashbacks, there are those remarks about how they haven't "eaten for days" and that whenever Nicky was poorly he said he was hungry. Agatha said she couldn't create the food for him (and protect him from what's coming). She could've cooked that goat they had with them if they were really that hungry (btw, I still believe that goat is Senor Scratchy), but that wasn't the "food" that Nicky meant.

And just like Billy, Rio couldn't just take Nicky. He had to "turn himself in". It was his choice not to kill any more witches. On the day Nicky dies, he says "My mother needs me home". I think he is talking about Rio here, since he usually calls Agatha "Mama". This is the moment the decides for himself and goes home to Death.

I feel like this opens the possibility that we will indeed see Nicholas Scratch in the future (and have a role similar to the one in the comics). That maybe even he might not have "died" because he is an offspring of death, so he just exists in some Underworld realm, where he no longer needs bodies to survive. Maybe Agatha might have hoped that by killing more and more witches, she will bring Nicky back to life/this realm?

And the Ballad really was a protection spell she made for him too?

This would also be a more plausible explanation why Agatha went to kiss Rio when Billy asked "Is this how Nicky died?". I feel this was more of an apology to Rio for hating her for Nicky's treatment, because she finally understood why she had to do it?

[solxamber]

OH MY GOD ITS HAPPENING

(It's Silver's Birthday btw)

Silver: I just thought of something. Perhaps this is something that could be granted by Lord Malleus...

He hesitates but finally says it

Silver: The name Vanrouge.

(LETS GO????)

Silver: For me, as the child of an enemy, I am fully aware that this is a presumptuous request beyond my station.

Silver: But, if... if I could be permitted.

Silver: Please make me Father's true son.

Malleus and Lilia are shocked and Lilia is a little hesitant at first because the name was bestowed on him for his military achievements. He says that there's red within that name, and its implications, are too bloody. It doesn't suit someone like silver.

Lilia: More than anything, it's the name of your true parents' enemy. To make you bear that name...

Silver laughs and says that its been 4 centuries and calls Lilia old fashioned

Sebek: Because this is an era where there's love, fairies and humans can become family!

(I'm so proud of sebeks growth omg I'm in tears)

Lilia: I see. ...An era where, if there's love, you can become family, huh? Hahahaha!

Malleus: Today, on this joyous day.. In the name of the Rulers of the Valley of Thorns, Draconia...

Malleus: Lilia Vanrouge, and his son, Silver Vanrouge

Malleus: I recognize you here as true parent and child!

(IT HAPPENED GUYS!!! HE'S SILVER VANROUGE NOW LETS GOO)

[kingkonoha]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

♡ — FIND PART ONE HERE . . .

♡ — SUMMARY: After what happened to you & your son, Satoru couldn’t stop drinking . . .

♡ — CONTENT: fem! reader, canonverse, violence & blood, reader celebrates Christmas, mentions of food, Gojo not eating, heavy drinking, & wanting to die. Mention of Gojo’s son & the reader struggling with their disabilities.

♡ — WC: 5.4K

♡ — A/N: thank you @sircatchungus for the idea!

There was so much blood.

It stained the walls of your home. It covered the little markings on the archway of your kitchen where you and Satoru marked the growth of your little boy.

No amount of scrubbing could ever get rid of it.

It soaked into the hardwood floors, the floors that had formerly only known the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet running along it as your little boy would run across it, arms out as he eagerly ran to his father whenever he stepped through the doors after a long mission.

The curses attacked at night, fifteen days before Christmas.

Your baby boy waddled towards the Christmas tree with a blue ornament in his hand, carefully placing it on one of the lower green branches — as high as he could reach.

Despite the holiday classics gently playing in the background, and the sweet smile across your son’s face — he was missing a tooth or two, but even so — you couldn’t manage to crack a grin. Not even a fake one.

Satoru promised that he would return home on Christmas Eve. But, for you, it wasn’t good enough.

He knew that your little family often put more effort into the days following up to Christmas almost even more so than Christmas Day itself.

On that important day, you opened presents. But, on the days leading up to it, you put up the Christmas decorations. Watched cringy Hallmark movies and drank hot chocolate. Went ice skating. Baked cookies. Visited your family. Wrapped gifts for his students.

And he would miss all of it.

“Mommy?” Your baby boy looked up at you with eyes brighter than the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree. “When dad come home?”

You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t want him to cry when you told him that his dad couldn’t watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with him this year.

He was used to Satoru disappearing at random times for unknown periods, but Satoru never missed the important stuff. Birthdays. Events. Holidays.

He never missed it until now.

“Hey,” you leaned down, placing your hands on your knees as you looked at your son. “Wanna get ready for bed? Let’s go pick out a book!”

“Okay!” He squealed, making his way for the stairs as you followed closely behind.

But, on your way to the stairs, you noticed something lying on the floor in your foyer.

“Sweetheart, what did mommy say about leaving your toys on the floor?”

Approaching the item, you started to pick it up, and it unraveled.

It wasn’t a toy at all.

It was a finger. A cursed object.

“Mommy?” Your baby boy called out, standing on the stairs. “Let’s read, Mommy.”

The curses emerged from the darkness of your dining room, drawn in by the cursed object.

The sight of the horrifically disfigured monsters brought your son to tears. He ran for you instantly, screaming for you. It only made the curses move faster. They went straight for your loud, crying son first.

There was so much blood.

—

“I never thought you’d fall in love in general,” Kento Nanami sipped on his glass of water as he chatted with Satoru. “But to fall in love with someone who isn’t a sorcerer is risky.”

“How so?” Satoru shrugged, leaning back on Kento’s living room couch as he sighed in utter relaxation.

“Does she know about curses? About how powerful you really are?”

“Of course she does,” Satoru smiled at the other sorcerer. “I’m gonna marry her, ya know. She knows everything.”

“You could also get in trouble for that,” Kento rolled his eyes at his friend’s idiotic behavior.

“No, I won’t. She’s just like you.” Satoru smirked a bit, thinking about how strong his future wife really was. “She can see curses, and she can kill them too, but she decided not to become a sorcerer. She hates the system, and wants me to leave it as well, just like you did before you came back.”

“I see,” Kento sat down on the couch next to the white-haired man. “So she’s one of us, kind of.”

“Yeah,” Satoru smiled fondly. “My girl doesn’t mess around.”

—

There was so much blood.

Nearby neighbors heard screaming and called the police.

Sirens blared through the neighborhood as a police car and ambulance arrived at your home. When they stepped into your house, blood coated the bottom of their heavy black shoes. They were certain that you and your son were dead.

No one could survive having lost that much blood.

Not a normal human, at least.

But you and your son weren’t exactly ordinary, and despite being unconscious, your chests were rising and falling. Faintly, as it certainly wasn’t a fate that would last, but it was enough for the emergency services to rush you and your baby boy to the hospital.

The skilled surgeons spent hours operating on your bodies — fixing what they could.

To ordinary investigators, it seemed as if a woman and her son were attacked by an intruder, and survived.

But, to the sorcerer society who picked up the presence of cursed energy in your home, they knew what really happened.

That you fought two first-grade curses and one second-grade curse.

It was a brutal fight, but you killed them.

Even so, when you awakened from your coma, doctors and the sorcerer society elders staring down at you as you lay helplessly in your hospital bed, you were forever changed.

—

No one told Satoru Gojo the truth.

Only the surgeons, first responders, and the elders knew the real fate of Satoru’s family, and the elders didn’t allow the surgeons and first responders to contact the father and husband of the two victims.

Instead, they told him that his family was dead. That it was Sukuna’s fault. They took advantage of the situation and fed him a pack of lies, all so they could convince humanity’s strongest sorcerer to allow them to execute Yuji Itadori.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he spiraled.

He went on a killing spree. He moved to a new town and nearly drank himself to death every single day.

And, little did he know, his little family had moved to the same town as well.

—

SEVEN YEARS LATER…

Your ten-year-old son walked down the streets of his small, cozy town. The brown and crisp fall leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he made his way down the sidewalk, and headed to your coffee shop after school.

His thumb was tucked underneath the strap of his backpack.

As he walked, staring at the ground so the setting sun didn’t shine in his eyes, he couldn’t help but frown.

School was rough today.

His class went on a field trip, and he had to witness his classmates bring their fathers along with them to the planetarium.

It broke his heart. He barely remembered his father.

He could faintly remember a man — a tall man who used to pick him up and play with him, but he couldn’t remember his face.

And, after the day you and he got attacked — although he couldn’t truly recall the event — you both never returned to your old home, where all of your pictures were.

All of your memories.

All he knew was that he wanted a dad. And he wanted to remember the man who once filled the role and figure out what happened to him.

What was he like? What did he look like? Did he have the same head of hair? Your son felt like he might have, but he wasn’t sure.

What did he do for a living? How old was he? Did he ever love his son? What happened to him?

God, his heart ached. He wanted answers, and he couldn’t get them. Not from you. Not from anyone.

He couldn’t help but wonder if his dad would have even liked him.

Perhaps, it was better if he didn’t have one, as he couldn’t play sports like most dads wanted their sons to do.

The great incident had left him with a bad leg, and he walked with a limp that often exhausted him.

He was even tired now, despite the incredibly short distance between the school and local shops.

He should have used his forearm crutch today. The field trip took more energy out of him than he expected.

And, the fact that he refused to let you leave the coffee shop, pick him up from school, and return to the coffee shop certainly didn’t help.

A tear rolled down his cheek. Even if he did have a father around, what father would want him around?

He already felt like a burden, although you never treated him as such. He just couldn’t help it.

He didn’t bother wiping away his tears, even as they clouded his vision of the leaves coating the sidewalk.

As he walked past the local bar, a tall man gently bumped into him.

“Excuse me,” your son mumbled politely.

The man reeked of alcohol.

“Sorry,” the man slurred out, walking around the boy as he made his way down the street.

Your son never looked up.

And Satoru never looked down.

When your son arrived at your cozy coffee shop, greeting the familiar regulars as he made his way to the counter, you smiled at the sight of your sweet boy.

He sat down at one of the barstools, slinging his backpack onto the counter as he pulled out his math notebook.

“Hi mom,” he greeted.

“Hi sweetheart,” you made him a cup of water and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “My homework’s on decimals. Joshua tried to eat a bug during lunch today during the field trip. It was awesome.”

“Nasty,” you playfully wrinkled your nose, which made your boy grin. “Did you have fun? I’m sorry I couldn’t go.”

“Yeah,” taking a much-needed sip of water, your son pulled out his wooden pencil and started working on his math problems. “And it’s okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll do something really special for your birthday.”

The boy simply nodded.

Folding your arms across your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder if your lack of attendance was better.

Not only could you not afford to close the coffee shop during business hours — your only other employees were busy with college classes — but you didn’t want to scare any of your son’s classmates.

After all, the great incident took a toll on you as well.

You lost your left eye and had a deep scar running vertically down your face. Most kids thought that it was cool, claiming that you resembled a pirate with your black eye patch. But you didn’t want to risk the chance of anyone finding it scary.

You had your fair share of other scars as well, and one missing finger.

But, none of your physical injuries could compare to your mental ones, as you also suffered from amnesia.

When you awakened from your coma all those years ago, you couldn’t remember what had happened.

Or anyone.

Or anything.

A couple of old people forced you away from the home you couldn’t remember and the loved ones you couldn’t cherish, and into a new life in a new town.

The horrific head injury you suffered while trying to protect your baby boy wiped away your past until you were nothing but a blank slate. But, after a year of being around him and constantly seeing his face, you started to remember your son.

Years later, he was all that you could remember.

Everything else was fuzzy. You remembered people, but you couldn’t remember their faces. You remembered love, but not who you shared it with.

You remembered how to do things — such as make delicious coffee, of course — but not who taught you.

But, even so, you thought that it was odd for a group of old people to rip your old life away from you.

They said it was for your safety, so the person who attacked you and your son wouldn’t find you again, but, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone out there who missed you.

Who loved you.

Who you might have forgotten.

And, technically, you knew the answer to that question. After all, your son had to have a father, but who was he? Where did he go? What did he look like?

Perhaps, you’d never know.

—

The very next day, on his way to the coffee shop after school, your son bumped into the drunk man again.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Sorry,” the man slurred.

Several moments later, as your son passed the entrance of the local bar, the bartender opened the door, and shouted, “hey!”

The drunk man never turned around, as he didn’t hear the bartender shouting for him. Your son stopped walking, looking up at the bartender.

“Poor guy forgot his wallet,” the bartender frowned, clenching the leather pouch in his right hand. “Guess I’ll hold on to it. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Your son flickered his eyes between the bartender and the drunken man making his way down the sidewalk.

The bartender couldn’t leave the bar unattended, even for a second, but your son figured that the man might have needed his wallet before tomorrow.

“I can give it to him, sir,” your son smiled kindly, holding out his hand.

“Thanks,” the bartender handed the wallet to the boy but stood at the bar entrance as long as he could to make sure the kid actually returned the wallet to the stranger.

An unofficial challenge between the drunken man and the limping boy was underway; a challenge to see whether or not your son could catch up to him.

But, as the man staggered around, headed nowhere in particular but in the general direction of his home, your son caught up.

He reached up and tapped the tall man’s arm.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “You dropped your wallet, sir.”

“Hm?” Satoru stopped walking, his hands in his pocket as he looked down. He made eye contact with the young boy who held his wallet up at him.

—

— ONE YEAR AGO —

Three gentle knocks were heard throughout Satoru’s home. It was a Sunday, and the bar was closed. Even so, the depressed man had enough alcohol at home to make it through the day, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. It just wasn’t enough.

When someone knocked on his door, he knew immediately that it was Kento Nanami. No one else visited him. No one else knew where he was.

Satoru opened the front door, leaning against it as he glared at the man with bloodshot eyes.

“Hey, Satoru,” Kento greeted softly. “Happy birthday.”

Satoru stepped away from the door. The other man walked inside.

Kento stepped into Satoru’s living room, which was unpleasantly cold, and he turned around to face his old classmate, who took a swig of his beer, loosely gripping the bottle.

“I won’t stay long,” Kento said. “I just wanted to bring you a gift.”

“What?” Satoru blinked at him.

Silently, Kento handed him a bag.

As Satoru hesitantly grabbed the gift, Kento grabbed the beer bottle.

Satoru slowly pulled out a heavy-framed photograph. A tear slipped down his cheek as his heart snapped into pieces.

“When someone passes away or goes missing, there are people who create photos and art to show what the person might currently look like using age progression.” Kento pushed up on his glasses. “I contacted one of them. Your wife looks the same, pretty much, but . . . that’s your boy. He would have been around nine years old, and that’s what he would have looked like.”

Hot tears fell from Satoru’s eyes and splattered onto the glass.

It was really you and your son — what you would have looked like if you were still alive.

His beautiful, dead family.

“Thank you,” Satoru mumbled. His hands were starting to tremble.

Kento wrapped his arms around the other man, hugging him tightly. He had to use all of his strength to not cry as well. “You’re welcome.”

—

“Sir?” Your son tilted his head a bit in utter confusion, as the drunken man hadn’t yet taken his wallet back. “Do you need some help? Getting home and stuff?”

Suddenly, Satoru kneeled.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Maybe he simply had too much to drink.

Maybe he was imagining things.

Because what Satoru thought — what he wanted to think — was that he was staring into his child’s eyes. That he was looking right at his baby boy, who he missed so much.

But that wasn’t possible. He was told that his family was murdered. He saw the blood.

“Thank . . . you,” Satoru slowly took the wallet back. “You . . .”

Satoru closed his eyes, and opened them again, fluttering his eyelashes as he tried to shake off what he thought was yet another vision.

Therapists told him that it was a response to grief — seeing his deceased wife and son when they weren’t there. And the alcohol running through his veins didn’t help either, as it distorted his vision a bit.

But . . . maybe, just maybe . . .

“You have’a name?” Satoru slurred out, his drunken words laced with hope.

“Noa,” your son smiled softly. “What’s yours?”

Satoru’s heart ached as his spirit was crushed once again.

His boy’s name was Ren.

The hallucinations must’ve started to return once more. Slowly, Gojo rose to his feet, putting his wallet in his back pocket.

Without another word, the man slowly started to walk off, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so.

“Mister? I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk home by yourself, you could get hit by a car or something.”

Satoru didn’t respond.

“Let me help,” the preteen limped over, grabbed Satoru’s arm, and slung it around his shoulder as best as he could. Truth be told, he didn’t help much despite his best efforts, but at the very least, he would be able to rest knowing that the stranger was safely at home.

By now, Satoru was convinced that maybe he was with a real person, perhaps an actual kid, and he was simply imagining that the young boy had his hair, nose, and eyes.

Together, Satoru and Noa walked up the steps belonging to the drunk man’s homey brownstone, and after stumbling around with the keys, Satoru managed to get the front door open, and Noa helped the man collapse on his couch.

Suddenly, his phone started ringing. Noa had five missed text messages from you.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” Noa thought.

After all, he wasn’t responding to your messages, he was inside a drunk stranger’s home due to his overly kind heart, and he wasn’t at the coffee shop like he was supposed to be at this hour.

Not to mention; the great incident had resulted in you becoming even more protective over your boy, if that was possible.

“Hello?” Noa answered nervously.

“Noa? Are you alright? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m okay, mom,” your son said. “I was helping out a . . . friend, I’m sorry.”

“Get to the coffee shop. Now.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After hanging up, Noa faced the slumped-over stranger.

“I’m gonna go now, my mom’s waiting for me,” Noa announced awkwardly. “Do you have somebody around to watch you?”

“You look like a . . . like my son.”

“Okay,” the young boy shifted his feet on the hardwood floor. He truly didn’t know how to respond to the poor man. He must’ve been spouting drunken nonsense. “Well, have a good night, sir. Be safe.”

Noa turned around, coming face to face with a beautiful brown, brick fireplace. But what caught his attention was the photos hanging above it.

There weren’t many — only about four framed photos.

The first one he saw was a picture of a baby. It startled Noa, as the kid did look just like him. It wasn’t surprising, as Noa resembled the drunken stranger, but he had seen other people with white hair before.

“Maybe he’s my cousin’s neighbor’s dog’s mother-in-law’s brother’s uncle,” Noa childishly thought, giggling aloud at his own joke.

Then, he looked at the next picture.

It had that same kid — but it also had you. His mother.

The next picture was just of you and the stranger.

Then, finally, he looked at the last photo. It was an age-progressed picture.

It was you. It was him. But, at the same time, it wasn’t. He didn’t quite understand it — any of it — but it was creepy. And the child didn’t know what to do.

Noa turned to face the stranger, but he was fast asleep on the couch.

The young boy pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the photos, and left as quickly as he could.

—

Satoru awoke the next morning with a pounding headache.

What snapped him out of his sleep was the sound of his front door opening and closing. He didn’t bother raising his head to see who it was, as he already knew the answer.

“If you’re just going to leave your front door unlocked,” Kento called out from the foyer, stepping into Satoru’s home and shutting the door behind him. “Then I shouldn’t have gone through the trouble of having a key made.”

“What are you doing here?” Satoru croaked. “It’s only . . . it’s only — uh, Saturday.”

“No,” Kento stepped into the living room and glared down at the man. “It’s Sunday.”

Satoru frowned. If it was Sunday, then the bar was closed.

Not only that, but he went to the bar on Friday. He must have spent Saturday on the couch, doing absolutely nothing except making an occasional trip to the bathroom.

And Kento could tell. He looked horrible.

No human being was made to endure such self-inflicted mistreatment, no matter how powerful.

Kento had a key to the man’s home for emergencies, but eventually, he started to visit him every Sunday to help him out in any way that he could.

“Come on,” Kento sighed, “get up. You need to get out of the house and go somewhere that isn’t the bar.”

“No,” Gojo mumbled weakly.

“Gojo,” kneeling, Kento tried to look at his friend’s face, but Satoru’s eyes wouldn’t meet his. “Gojo, listen to me. You’re going to die if you keep going down this path. Maybe not soon, but eventually. When was the last time you had food and water?”

Satoru shrugged.

Kento raised to his feet. Walking away, he headed to the kitchen — which was incredibly nice for a man who didn’t cook — and opened the refrigerator.

It was empty. Of course.

“Alright,” Kento said to himself, walking back into the living room. “I’m dragging him to the grocery store.”

—

It was incredibly difficult, but Kento helped his friend get cleaned up and dressed and managed to get him outside. Satoru hated every minute of it. He felt nauseous. All he wanted to do was sleep and drink, or drink and sleep.

As the two men walked into the grocery store, Kento grabbed a cart and instantly started grabbing a variety of ingredients to put together at least a week’s worth of nutritious meals for Satoru.

He’d cook it and store it away in Satoru’s fridge and freezer, and all the man would have to do was heat it in the microwave.

After making his way through the produce section, Kento headed towards the cases of water, and Satoru sluggishly walked down random aisles to find a jar of pasta sauce that the other man asked him to go get.

He had to do some things on his own.

—

“I’m thinking we should go with asparagus instead of broccoli,” you scanned your eyes over the fresh, green vegetables, before smiling down at Noa.

“Asparagus is fine, but can you put cheese on it? Pleaseee?”

“You know what, as long as you’re eating them, I don’t care what I have to put on them,” grabbing the asparagus, you tossed them into your cart as your son clenched his fists in celebration.

You ruffled his head of white hair with your four-fingered hand.

“Stop it, mom. We’re in public,” he frowned playfully.

“Fine, fine,” you started to push your cart forward and reached over to grab a pack of tomatoes. “Go pick out your cereal. Gonna switch it up this week, or get Lucky Charms again?”

“Lucky Charms, always,” your son grinned as he started to limp away. Today, he had to wear his forearm clutch.

Helping that stranger a few days ago took a lot of energy out of him.

He didn’t speak of what happened a few days ago, either.

After all, who would he tell?

You wouldn’t have the answers — or, rather, you wouldn’t remember the answers.

He had planned on returning to the drunk man’s home to ask him the questions running rampantly through his mind.

But Noa wasn’t stupid.

He knew exactly what the pictures meant.

But he didn’t want to give himself any hope, just in case he was wrong somehow, and the drunk man wasn’t his father.

A forty-pack case of water bottles was what you needed, as you and your boy chugged water constantly. But, a careless worker had shoved the cases incredibly far away, and you couldn’t reach it and pull it onto the lower shelf of your cart. You’d have to lift it, and you simply weren’t strong enough.

The nicely dressed blonde-haired man standing further along down the aisle was.

He was rather tall and buff, standing by his cart as he scrolled on his phone, simply waiting for you — the lady in front of him, whose face he couldn't see — to move so he could grab his own case of water, grab his miserably sober friend, and take him back home.

“Excuse me,” you called out softly. “Can you help me? I can’t get this case of water.”

“Sure,” he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and he walked forward, reached down, and pulled the case of water on your cart.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

As the man was about to say “you’re welcome,” he finally looked at you.

His skin paled instantly as if he was staring at a ghost.

And he was certain that he was.

He stood there — staring at you, his throat drying to a crisp.

“I don’t know why the employees always shove the water back there,” you attempted to make small chatter, glancing away from the stranger, as you assumed he was staring at you oddly due to your eye patch, and the scar running along your face right beneath it.

“I . . .” the man couldn’t find the right words to say.

Suddenly, your son made his way down the aisle, putting his box of cereal in the cart.

“Mom, did you know they make Lucky Charms with just the marshmallows now?”

The man’s eyes flickered down to your son, and his eyes widened.

“This isn’t . . . possible,” he mumbled.

Both you and your son were still alive, and yet, you didn’t seem as shocked to see him as he was to see you.

Didn’t you remember him? He was your husband’s best man at your wedding. He babysat your little boy quite often. He cried when he heard that you and your son were killed.

And yet, you only gave him a stranger-friendly smile.

“I-”

“Y/N?”

Kento was interrupted by Satoru, who had suddenly walked down the aisle.

He dropped the jar of pasta sauce on the ground.

It shattered.

“Renny?” A tear slipped down his cheek.

He wasn’t hallucinating — he was sober enough right now to know that.

Your eyes darted back and forth between the two unfamiliar men. After all, you knew well that you suffered from amnesia, your doctors had told you, and considering the man with the white hair called you and your son by your old names — the elders made you change them — you figured that they must have been old friends of yours.

But the white-haired man bore a resemblance to your son as well.

“Hi,” you smiled awkwardly, flickering your eyes between the two men. “You two must know me. I, um, I suffer from amnesia, so I don’t really . . .”

“Remember us,” Kento finished your sentence for you.

He thought that he was going to pass out.

“Well,” he gulped, pressing a hand against his head, closing his eyes as he spoke. This was insane. “I’m . . . I’m Kento Nanami. I was an old friend of yours. And this is Satoru Gojo, he is . . . he was . . .”

Kento glanced back at Satoru. The poor man hadn’t moved an inch. He only stared at you with the saddest eyes, an occasional tear slipping from them.

“I was waiting to die,” Satoru spoke — his words struggling to come out as he did so. “I was waiting to die so I could see you two again, and you don’t . . . remember me.”

The tears were falling even faster now. It was a blessing and a curse at the same time, one that he couldn’t bear. He wanted to laugh and sob. He wanted to hold you, but he was afraid to move. His hands started to shake, but the rest of his body was still frozen.

For years, he dreamt of reuniting with you and your boy again, perhaps in the afterlife. Or, sometimes he’d dream about you coming back to life like a silly child. But a fate as cruel as you being alive, but suffering with amnesia was like a direct punishment from a god and a devil at the same time.

Gojo wanted to fucking die.

He wanted his life to end right now, even glancing up at the ceiling of the grocery store, hoping one of the gods above would grant him his silent wish.

“You don’t remember me,” Gojo repeated. None of it seemed real. “You’re alive, but you don’t remember me.”

By now, other nosey shoppers were strolling by, listening to the conversation, but pretending that they were simply searching the shelves for drinks.

Your eyes darted in Kento’s direction, and he knew that face.

It was the same face you gave him when he and Satoru returned home two days late from a mission. It was the face you gave him when you came home one day and discovered that he accidentally let your baby boy stay up past his bedtime.

That face meant that you wanted answers.

“I don’t know any better way to say this,” Kento frowned. “That’s your husband. And the father of your child.”

Noa — or, rather, Ren — limped forward.

“I knew it,” he whispered happily, approaching the crying man as a tear slipped down his own cheek as well. “I was right.”

Ren looked up at his father with the happiest grin of relief.

And, god, your son grew. He was only three when Satoru had last seen him, and now, he was staring down at his beautiful boy, who was turning eleven soon.

Your son hugged Satoru with the arm that wasn’t holding on to his singular forearm clutch.

“Finally,” your boy said, holding on to his dad as tightly as he could.

He couldn’t remember him, but he didn’t care. He was simply happy to have a father.

Satoru didn’t hesitate to hug his son back.

“God, Renny . . .” the man cried, as his heart ached terribly. “It’s really you, it’s my baby boy.”

Running a hand through his son’s white hair, Satoru pulled away from the hug, only so he could look his boy in the eyes, and see him.

“You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?” A sad chuckle fell from Satoru’s lips.

He only looked away from his son when he felt another pair of arms wrap around him.

It was you — you were hugging him.

Satoru closed his eyes in relief, his tears soaking the front of his shirt, and dripping onto the heads of his family.

You hugged him lovingly, although you couldn’t remember loving him.

Your husband — the father of your child — was nothing more than a stranger to you, but he needed this hug. You could tell how badly he missed you. How badly he wanted to hold you.

As Satoru held onto his wife and son, none of you truly understood what had happened seven years ago.

But Satoru was determined to find out.

And, in the meantime, you’d try your hardest to recover your sweet memories of him, just as you once recovered the memories of your son.

Perhaps, you’d start by making new memories as well.

♡ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤? 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

🏷: @sad-darksoul @sircatchungus @gojossocks @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @star-toruu @yobabymama @s7armin @minmin-minnie @jexx233 @asiaa2prettyy @roninishere @dreamsarenicer @starzcoffeelvr @delghoul @buttercupmuffins @dijaicar @tuliptoot @sweet-yzabelle @creative1writings @lympha @malikazz243 @bforbiblio @galagarts @enesitamor @luffysfav @chilichopsticks @misscellaneousisme @1plwushie @blackjou @gfmima @dazedflvr @safiest58ravenclaw @dyna-mights

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

ৎ୭. . . VIRAGO ─── Damian Wayne

Part 1 & 2

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Between laughter, jealousy, and secrets, a mother and a lover compete for the heart of someone who has already chosen their path. Harley clings to the past. Damian waits for the future. And in between, a story of growth, goodbyes, and unbreakable love. Because in the end, no matter where they go, there will always be a home to return to.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 9,4k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Dark themes, violence, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships (not Damian and Reader), destruction,

「Strong, brave or warrior woman

who demonstrates exemplary or heroic qualities」

Damian Wayne was not meant to attend classes like an ordinary kid. No. He was the grandson of the Head of the Demon, the legitimate heir to a bloody and millennia-old tradition. But he was also the son of the Bat, and as long as Bruce Fucking Wayne ruled his family, he would fulfill the tedious duty of attending Gotham's most elitist private school.

He thought it would be easy. Study and that's it. Simple. But soon he realized that being a “normal” student at Gotham High was like being a wolf trying to pass as a sheep.

His intelligence—his most valuable weapon—was seen as an eccentricity, almost an indelible stain in an environment of boys who believed their gilded surnames and even more gilded wallets were all that mattered. He couldn’t make friends. The kids looked at him as if he were a robot from a nightmare with his cutting remarks and sharp vocabulary. The girls only saw his last name, not him.

Until you showed up.

Damian hated group projects. He hated even more when everyone pounced on him like hungry crows as soon as the teacher uttered the words: “Choose a partner.” It was always the same. “Can we work together, Wayne?” “I’m sure you’ll do great, right?” “My dad says your dad is very important.”

That day, he saw you dozing in the back row, your head tilted on the desk while a trickle of drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips. Despicable. Although... at least honest.

“Do you want to do the project with me?” he asked, because his father’s basic education forced him to phrase it as a question.

“You’re going to do the project with me!” was what you heard, although nothing could be further from the truth.

The next thing happened so quickly that Damian had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination born from his frustration. You jumped as if you’d received an electric shock and hugged him so tightly that for a moment he feared you might break a rib.

“Yes, yes, yes! It’s going to be an explosive and fascinating project! Can you imagine? We could make a volcano that really erupts or a robot that shoots confetti or...!”

Damian froze as your high-pitched voice spewed nonsensical ideas with the same excitement as a dog seeing its favorite toy. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of madness and innocence he had never seen before.

“You're annoying,” he murmured.

“And you're such a ray of sunshine!” you cheerfully replied, still not letting go of him.

It was at that precise moment that Damian understood this project was going to be a nightmare. But there was something about you that intrigued him... maybe because you were the first person who really looked at him and not at his last name.

But of course, he would never admit that out loud.

Alfred tried to hide his surprise when you showed up at Wayne Manor to study. Of course, he concealed it well behind his usual neat British demeanor, but Damian noticed. Who wouldn’t?

First, you said you had walked there. Who the hell walks to Wayne Manor from Gotham City? That already raised suspicions. But the real shock came when Damian greeted you at the door.

Wild hair, cut in a style that screamed rebellion and creativity, with streaks of red and blue that made it look like you had just run through a furious rainbow. Contemporary, colorful clothing that anyone would say you had fought with a clown and won. Brightly colored knee-high boots that clicked on the marble entrance.

Even Duke, who had bulletproof patience, peeked through the door to take a look. The guy expected another mini Dracula like Damian, not a clown doll freshly escaped from a carnival.

“Wow, this mansion looks like Dracula's house,” you exclaimed, looking at the walls with wide, bright eyes as he led you through the hallways to the study room.

Damian glanced at you sideways, ready to unleash a sarcastic comment... but when he realized it, he was already laughing. Yes, laughing. Something he hadn’t even been sure he could do without his lungs refusing to cooperate until that day.

As strange as it sounded, he was having fun.

You were explosive, loud, witty, but good at what you did. It was like working alongside a lightning bolt in colorful sneakers. And when you focused, you were genuinely smart. Odd, yes, but clever. Something that didn’t happen often among the superficial crowd of Gotham High.

As the afternoon wore on, you loosened up and told him a bit about your life. How you lived with your mother, a woman with the same chaotic euphoria as you, but obsessed with your father: a gangster whose name you didn’t mention, but described with a mix of disdain and confused affection.

“My mom loves me, but since she always does what dad says, I have to learn to take care of myself.” You said this while finishing painting a perfectly detailed bomb on the project, as if talking about family traumas was as casual as discussing the weather.

Damian watched you in silence. That phrase hung in the air like a haunting ghost he understood all too well.

“Sometimes I’m scared... that she’ll choose him over me.”

He understood. Of course he did. Because sometimes he was also afraid his mother would choose anything before him. Power, legacy... the League.

But of course, he wasn’t going to get sentimental in front of you. Especially with the hidden audience behind the door. Alfred, your pets, Jason, Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Babs, Duke, even Bruce, all spying with the same discretion as an elephant in a tea room.

“Everything okay, Wayne?” you asked, tilting your head with a smile so wide it seemed out of place in a castle like that.

“Sure,” he replied, not giving it much thought.

And so they continued working. He discovering that maybe not all people who came into his life were destined to be a problem.

Of course, being you, that was just a matter of time.

Damian had never had a real friend. Not one who wanted nothing from him other than his company. So, when the project ended and you kept showing up to pounce on him with a loud, overflowing hug of energy, he didn’t know what to do.

Dick thought it was charming. “Friends do fun things together,” he told him with that broad smile that seemed straight out of a damn cereal commercial. “They go out for ice cream, watch movies, or just... are there.”

Damian didn’t quite understand the last part. But he understood enough to know that your eyes lit up every time you mentioned the word “baseball.” So one day, without even knowing why, he took you to the practice field.

“Really?” you exclaimed, with such pure excitement that it almost felt like an insult.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged. But even he knew it sounded too clumsy to be believable.

What happened next was a wonderful chaos. You swung the bat with the same passion a warrior would wield a sword. Every hit you made was accompanied by a shout of joy or some laughter that escaped you as if you couldn’t contain it.

Damian threw the ball to you over and over again, not completely understanding why it was so much fun. But the fact that you were happy seemed to make him happy too. And although he would never admit it out loud, it became almost a weekly ritual.

Sometimes, after practice, he’d drag you to an ice cream shop. Your way of devouring absurd flavors like “Smurf Ice Cream” or “Sour Caramel” was fascinating. Ridiculous, but fascinating.

“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said, arms crossed as he tried not to laugh.

“Well, you have ice in your heart!” you cheerfully replied, licking the ice cream as if that were the most logical answer in the world.

Other times, he’d take you to watch movies, because Dick insisted that “Friends watch movies together, Dami.” Of course, he didn’t expect you to prefer the bloodiest and most absurd horror films possible.

“Look, look, here comes the monster with fifty knives in its head,” you commented between laughs, enjoying the terrible performances more than the plot itself.

It was absurd. Everything they did together was absurd. But it made him happy. It made him feel... free. Like for the first time, he didn’t have to be the heir, the warrior, or the perfect son. Just Damian.

But, like everything in his life, happiness lasted as long as a blink.

He arrived at school one day, with the usual hope of seeing you dozing in the back row, drool falling from your mouth and the smile ready to yell something ridiculous that made him feel like everything was okay.

But you weren’t there.

The teachers told him you had dropped out. That you didn’t have the funds to continue at that luxurious and superficial school that had never been made for someone like you.

Damian tried to find you. He turned to contacts he shouldn’t have used for something so... personal. But your name sounded like a ghost. No trace. No signal.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Finally, he accepted that maybe you were never going to show up again.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do well. Try to forget you.

But it didn’t matter how many times he repeated that he didn’t care, that you were nothing, there was always an echo of your laughter resonating in his mind. There was always that absurd memory of you excitedly shouting about hitting a ball with a bat, as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.

And worst of all was that, in a way, it really was.

Years passed in the blink of an eye, dragging him into the whirlwind of Gotham, the League, the Teen Titans, and everything that meant being Robin. Fights with assassins, gods, and impossible creatures became his routine. He had grown, changed, learned to live with the weight of the mantle he wore.

He had made friends. Jon Kent, always so ridiculously optimistic that he sometimes seemed like a sun with legs. Flatline, with her dark humor and that dangerous smile that challenged him daily. And of course, the Titans, a chaotic group of teenagers dealing with their problems while saving the world.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him to see you again.

It was his first day of high school. Gotham’s private school was just as ridiculous as always, full of rich brats who cared more about the latest brand of clothing than anything that really mattered. But he was there for a reason: to blend his life as Robin with the facade of a normal teenager.

And then, there you were.

You had grown. Your hair, although still carrying that rebellious essence, now fell in tousled, styled locks, with touches of red and blue that shone under the fluorescent lights. The clothes you wore were... eye-catching, but not childish. It was as if you had found your own style playing between androgynous and extravagant. Everything about you seemed to challenge the world.

But the worst, or the best, was that you were still you. That wide, sparkling smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter at any moment. Your eyes sparkled with the same intensity as always, as if you hadn’t lost a shred of that wild euphoria that had so bewildered him.

And then you turned and saw him.

“Damian!” you shouted with that exaggerated voice that seemed like a show in itself. You didn’t care that the whole hallway turned to look at you. You didn’t care about anything. Because all you did was launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him as if no years had passed.

“What the hell...?” Damian exclaimed, not knowing whether to step back or return the hug. In the end, his body decided for him, and his arms awkwardly tightened around you.

“What are you doing here?!” you said, with a tone that mixed genuine surprise and pure joy. It was as if you had never left. As if you had never been a ghost he had desperately tried to forget.

“I study here,” he replied with that seriousness that sometimes made people mistake him for a grumpy doll. But you just laughed, as always.

“Wow! I never thought Dracula would have to deal with algebra like a mere mortal.”

“I’m not a vampire,” he grunted, frowning even though a part of him wanted to smile. It was absurd how you returned to his life as if nothing had happened.

“Sure, sure. But you’re still just as grumpy.” You finally let him go, although you remained close enough that he couldn’t escape.

And that was it. In a matter of seconds, you were already talking to him about your things as if years hadn’t passed. As if you hadn’t left him with an inexplicable void when you disappeared.

You had changed, yes. Taller, with more attitude, as if challenging the entire world had become your new favorite pastime. But you were still you. Chaotic, unpredictable, and... radiant.

“So, are we skipping class and doing something fun?” you asked with a mischievous smile, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.

“No,” he replied automatically. Because of course, he was Damian Wayne. The responsible one, the serious one, the one who never strayed from the right path.

“Bah, always so boring. But I missed you, Dami. I’m glad you’re here.” And your voice sounded softer, almost sweet, as you took a small step back and smiled at him with that eternal spark in your eyes.

Damian didn’t know what to say. Because somehow, those words had ignited something within him that he thought he had buried along with the memory of that girl who dragged him to play baseball and laugh at bad movies.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally admitted, in a whisper so low he almost thought he had imagined it.

But the smile you gave him was enough to know you had heard him.

Your friendship with Damian had picked up right where it had left off. Among laughter, challenges, and outings that didn’t always end well but were always fun. Dinners at Wayne Manor became a regular occurrence, with Bruce trying to be the awkward dad and all the Batkids secretly laughing at how different you were from any friend Damian had ever had before.

Because let’s be honest, you didn’t care one bit if Damian was rich, serious, or mortally sarcastic. To you, he was simply Dami. A grumpy, prickly kid who, despite his tough facade, always ended up giving in to your crazy ideas.

Of course, he never told you about his other life. Not about Robin, not about his mother, not about the thousand and one dark secrets he carried. But it wasn’t like he needed to. Because sometimes, people spoke.

The rumors at school were like whispers that slid through the hallways like snakes. Robin was always watching from the same place, an abandoned building in downtown Gotham. Like a proud crow surveying the city.

And your gang—yes, because you had made new friends too—challenged you to something no one else had dared: throwing paint at Robin from the rooftop. A prank. A game. What could go wrong?

The answer: Everything.

That night was your first big teenage stupidity. You climbed the building with a can of green paint in hand, trembling with nerves but refusing to back down. And there he was, just as they said he would be, the dark cape fluttering in the wind as his eyes scanned the city as if every shadow was a potential enemy.

You didn’t think too much about it. Because if you had, you would have realized it was a terrible idea. You simply raised the can and threw the paint at him with all your strength.

The green splattered on his right shoulder, spattering in irregular patterns on his cape and part of his mask. At first, Robin stood still. As if his brain refused to process what had just happened. But then, he slowly turned his head towards you, those green eyes glaring at you as if you had committed the worst sin in the universe.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared in a voice so low and furious that a chill ran down your spine.

“Oh, shit!” you exclaimed, with a nervous smile. Because of course, everything was funny until the paint touched the bird.

Without waiting for a response, you took off running. And he was right behind you.

You knew he was fast. Everyone said so. But you never thought he would be this fast. His shadow moved like a damn ghost behind you, his footsteps echoing on the rooftops as you jumped from building to building like a deranged goat.

“Wait!” he shouted with a tone that mixed anger and disbelief. As if he couldn’t believe someone could be foolish enough to throw paint at him and then try to escape.

“Not a chance!” you yelled back, almost laughing as your lungs burned from effort. Because yes, you were terrified. But you were also excited. Because at the end of the day, you were you. The chaotic girl who never knew when to stop.

But running 20 kilometers wasn’t exactly something your body could handle. And when your legs began to weaken and your breathing turned into an irregular gasp, he seized the opportunity.

He leaped from a higher building and landed right in front of you, his eyes shining with a wild fury that almost seemed inhuman.

“Game over,” he declared, his voice so low and threatening that it almost made you laugh at how dramatically he sounded.

“Are you going to kill me, crazy bird? Because if you do, I’ll be the happiest dead girl in Gotham,” you replied, trying to sound brave but aware that you probably looked like a delirious idiot.

“No. But I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, and before you could react, he had picked you up as if you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.

“Hey! Put me down! You’re lucky I don’t have anything explosive right now, because I’d blow your butt up!” you shouted as you kicked the air and tried to break free.

“That’s what worries me,” he murmured, with that irritated tone that characterized him so well.

The next thing you knew, he took you to an alley where, surprisingly, he didn’t throw you against the wall or lecture you like a boring adult. Instead, he set you down on the ground and crossed his arms, looking at you with a mix of exasperation and... curiosity?

You noticed something strange, even under the thick layer of green paint.

That hair, that posture, those calculated movements. Everything fit together in an unsettling way.

“...Damian!?” Your eyes widened, surprise barely contained in your voice.

From that moment on, everything changed. You discovered your friend was Robin, and you never missed an opportunity to tease him about it. But between the jokes and the knowing smiles, you swore him something with all the sincerity you could muster.

“I’ll never say a word. I’ll keep it forever.”

And so it was. The pact sealed with the innocence of youth remained intact. Until one ordinary afternoon, returning from the baseball field with the sun setting on your backs, you decided to confide in him your own truth.

“There’s something I need to tell you...” you murmured, looking down, kicking an imaginary stone as you walked.

Damian frowned, alert as always.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mom... well, the one who raised me... is Harley Quinn.” You blurted it out, as if the words weighed more with each second they remained trapped in your chest.

He blinked, surprised, before opening his mouth.

“The crazy Harley?”

“Don’t call my mom crazy!” you retorted firmly, even though your voice wavered a little. “She was going through a rough patch with my dad, that’s all...”—You diverted your gaze before adding—“Besides, she’s not my biological mom, so I don’t have any physical or mental issues... other than some weird habits, I guess. So don’t worry.”

Damian watched you in silence, his calculating gaze trying to unravel the truth behind your words. But in his eyes, there was also something more. Something akin to acceptance.

Because deep down, they both knew they shared secrets too big for their age. And that bound them in a way no one else could.

And so, the more secrets they shared, the closer they became. Confessions in hushed voices under starry skies or during endless walks united them in a way neither of them expected. Until one day, something changed.

Damian asked you out. Not to train, not to spend time teasing each other, but to dinner. Formal. In an upscale restaurant, with white tablecloths and lit candles. You showed up in a dress that, although eye-catching as always, exuded a unique elegance. He had also made an effort; the usual rigidity in his posture softened by a barely concealed nervousness.

That night was different. For the first time, they allowed themselves to truly see each other, beyond the jokes or the friendship they had built. They spoke with an honesty that only arises when two souls decide to fully open up. And at some point in the conversation, they both surprised themselves thinking the same thing: “How didn’t I realize before how attractive he is?”

At the end of the evening, everything was perfectly planned, courtesy of Dick’s unmistakable intervention, who seemed to enjoy organizing that special moment far too much.

Damian mentally prepared himself to take the big step as they walked back toward your neighborhood. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—it was you who spoke first.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” you blurted out, without preambles, without introductions.

Damian blinked, visibly taken aback. His lips parted as if searching for an appropriate response, but in the end, he could only sigh and smile resignedly.

“I was supposed to say that,” he murmured in a tone that tried to sound annoyed, although amusement sparkled in his eyes.

From that day on, everything changed. You spent both mornings and nights together, sharing something much deeper than the simple camaraderie that had united you in the beginning. There was something authentic, warm, and solid in your relationship that neither of you was willing to let go.

But if anything defined Damian, it was his protectiveness. Perhaps it was his vigilant nature or his endless list of responsibilities, but he was always aware of everything that happened around you. He worried about whether you were eating well, about your complicated relationship with Harley, about the people you hung out with, and especially about keeping you away from any gang that might cross your path.

That’s how you came to an agreement: he would teach you to defend yourself. The training sessions became an essential part of your routine, as habitual as baseball games or nighttime walks. Damian taught you to fight with the seriousness that characterized him, correcting every movement with patience— or the closest he could get to patience. Sometimes, he even took you on missions from afar, showing you how to act in critical situations without exposing yourself too much.

Your relationship with Harley gradually deteriorated. At least for her.

For you, everything remained the same. Or so you thought.

The morning egg sandwich tradition, for example. That sacred tradition between mother and daughter. Once again, you walked together through the streets of Gotham, which miraculously, under the sunlight, seemed a little less frightening.

Harley, with her usual energy, approached the food cart and ordered two egg sandwiches without a second thought.

But this time, you stopped her.

“Today I prefer a vegan sandwich, thanks.”

You said it without looking up from your phone, distracted by some nonsense on the screen.

Harley froze. Her white-painted face contorted into an expression of absolute horror, as if you had said you wanted to leave Gotham to join a Tibetan monastery.

“A... what?”

“A vegan sandwich,” you repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Harley’s eyes widened like saucers. She looked at the vendor as if expecting him to say it was a joke. But no, the betrayal was real.

From there, the changes became increasingly evident.

Friday taco nights with the girls, once sacred, disappeared.

“It’s taco Friday, kiddo!” Harley reminded you with enthusiasm.

“I can’t, I have plans,” you replied dismissively.

Your plans? Watching movies at “a friend’s” house. A mysterious friend. One who Harley didn’t know... or maybe she did.

Before, you always matched in your outfits, wearing matching leather jackets or some shared reference in your attire. But now you bought your own clothes. You dressed how you wanted, without worrying about what she thought.

Harley tried to seek support from her friends.

“Is she going through something? Is she in a weird phase?”

“She’s growing up, Harls,” Ivy and Selina told her with a smile that said “this is normal.”

But for her, it wasn’t.

Desperate, she turned to Batman.

“You have, what? Five kids? Six? Help me, bat!”

Batman merely looked at her in silence, with his typical “I have no time for this” face.

“I’m not exactly a parenting role model.”

Harley huffed. Yes, that was crystal clear.

But then she started noticing things.

You came home with bruises. You were evasive with her questions. You didn’t tell her anything.

At first, she thought maybe you were just being reserved. Teenager, independent. But then, seeing you arrive hurt once again, with a furrowed brow and an evasive look...

She thought of the worst, that maybe you were still hanging out with gangs of aspiring teenage killers or drug lords, that the Joker had found you and decided to take you as a bomb kid, or worse... that you had a secret boyfriend who was abusive to you... just like she had experienced.

She had had enough.

She wasn’t going to sit by while you drifted further and further away.

So she took matters into her own hands.

It was a quiet night... until it stopped being so.

Four in the morning. As usual, you were ready to say goodbye with a kiss at the window, as you always did. Something sweet, discreet... the norm.

But at the exact moment your lips barely brushed against Damian’s...

Chaos.

Three giant hyenas burst out from under your bed with growls that shook the walls. And as if that weren’t enough, Harley Quinn, in full ninja form, dropped from the ceiling with a baseball bat in hand.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!” she roared with the fury of a mother who had just discovered the ultimate betrayal.

Survival instinct took control.

You slammed the window shut, leaving Damian trapped in the railing as your mother and her hyenas tried to get to him.

“Mom, calm down!” you interposed between her and the window, raising your hands in a sign of peace.

Harley looked at you with a furrowed brow, her eyes blazing with fury.

“Calm down?! I just saw my little girl making out with that demon bird!”

“It’s not what it looks like...”

But it was what it looked like.

And worst of all was that Harley already hated Damian to begin with.

Because, among all the Robins, he was the one she could stand the least.

He was arrogant. He was bossy. He was Batman’s son.

And now... he was kissing her daughter.

Maybe this was karma for all the crimes Harley had committed in her life.

Or maybe... it was destiny giving her a direct punch in the face.

Literally, because at that moment she raised the bat with the intention of using it.

In the end, Harley had to swallow her words. And the rest is history.

It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be.

Because, after all, they both knew something was wrong. That things had changed.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.

For the first time in a long time, they sat down to talk. For real. No shouting, no all-out battles with hyenas involved. Just mother and daughter, trying to find their way back to each other.

Harley sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair.

“I wasn’t prepared for this,” she admitted softly.

And for the first time, you saw her vulnerable. Not the criminal, not the crazy psychologist, not the woman who could knock someone’s face off without a second thought. Just a scared mother.

“I wasn’t prepared for a baby, and now I’m supposed to be ready for you to grow up and become independent?” she let out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I can barely take care of myself!”

Her words hurt. Because you knew they were true.

But that didn’t change reality.

So you did what you knew best: you told her the truth.

All of it. From dating Damian to your nighttime escapades as a heroine.

She listened in silence, her lips pressed together and her arms crossed. She looked sulky, annoyed... but not surprised.

And in the end, she accepted reality. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.

Then she wrapped you in a hug.

A strong, crushing, desperate hug.

A hug that said everything words couldn’t.

That she loved you. That she would never stop loving you.

That she needed you, just as much as you needed her.

And at that moment, you knew.

That even though everything changed... even if you fought, argued, drove each other crazy... there would always be a common point.

You would always be Harley and her.

Whether it was stealing marshmallows at midnight or simply sharing a night under the stars.

Harley sighed against your hair, with a tired smile.

“Puberty sucks.”

For the first time in a long time, you laughed together.

“Yes, Mom...” you smiled. “It totally sucks.”

And then, everything changed again.

Now, you dated Damian normally while also spending time with your mother. A balance between two worlds that, for anyone else, would be impossible. But for you... well, let’s just say you were used to chaos.

Of course, life is never simple.

There were moments when everything went well. And then, out of nowhere, BOOM, explosive surprises at the worst possible time.

Like when Bruce Wayne, in an extreme gesture of formality—and perhaps hoping to prevent his son from becoming even more antisocial—invited you and Harley to dinner after you and Damian had been together for a year.

It almost felt like you were sealing a marriage.

You, in your naivety, thought it was just a quiet dinner. Something casual, relaxed, without pressure. You wore normal clothes, as you would any other day.

But Harley had other ideas.

“Casual?!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she pulled dresses from her wardrobe as if she were choosing outfits for the Oscars. “This isn’t just any dinner; this is a declaration of social war.”

“It’s just Bruce Wayne, Mom...”

“IT’S BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE. Do you know how many times he’s tried to throw me in Arkham? At least fifty! And now, I’m going to sit at his table, with class and elegance, and I’ll show him his son chose well!”

Spoiler: Harley's “elegance” consisted of a bright red sequined dress, shiny heels, and a faux fur coat... accompanied by her baseball bat, which she insisted on bringing “for safety.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. He was probably used to it by now.

But Damian did.

He spent the entire dinner with tense shoulders and a pure look of resignation as Harley threw him comments like:

“So, Birdie, what intentions do you have with my daughter?”

“Not enough to justify this interrogation.”

“Look at you being all clever! Hey, how about we have a game night? Something like... I don’t know... Russian Roulette.”

“Mom…”

Damian slowly sipped his water, wondering if it was really worth continuing this relationship.

But the worst came afterward.

When it was you who invited Damian over.

You thought you would be alone.

Beginner’s mistake.

Because the moment you settled with him on the couch, the door burst open, and Harley appeared, triumphant, with a giant bag of Chinese food.

“Surprise!” she sang, throwing herself onto the couch next to you two. “I brought food and a movie.”

Damian looked at you. You looked at Damian.

“Mom... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to spend time with you,” she replied, casually opening a box of noodles. “And with your boyfriend.”

Immediately, she turned on the TV and put on a movie... while staring intently at Damian.

Without blinking... For two hours.

At some point, Damian whispered in your ear:

“Your mom is analyzing my soul as if I were Katana.”

“Don’t worry, that’s her way of showing affection.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

And so the night passed, with Harley noisily chewing her Chinese food, Damian resisting the urge to pull out a sword purely for survival instinct, and you... well, you simply accepted your fate.

Soon it became clear as an irrefutable fact: Harley was jealous of Damian to the core.

No matter how much she said she had accepted you were growing up, that you weren’t a little girl anymore, that you had the right to your independence, the truth was...

She didn’t fully accept it.

And the worst part was that she didn’t even try to hide it.

Every time you were with Damian, she appeared.

It was as if she had a sixth sense for detecting when you were about to enjoy a romantic moment.

“Surprise!” she shouted one day, popping out from a trash can.

You almost fainted.

Damian, on the other hand, just sighed.

“How did you get in there?”

“Don’t underestimate a mother!”

Another day, you were walking hand in hand in the park, enjoying the silence, when suddenly...

“HELLO, LOVE BIRDS!”

Harley appeared from the treetop, dressed in a squirrel costume.

“Why are you dressed like that?!” you asked, horrified.

“Camouflage, sweetheart.”

Damian closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered:

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it...”

But Damian was smarter than she was.

And that hurt him.

Because every time Harley tried to get between you, he found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

When Harley decided to infiltrate an upscale restaurant disguised as a waitress to spy on your date, Damian simply said:

“Oh, thank you,” taking the menu she offered him. “Please bring me your most expensive dish.”

“Damian! It’s my mom!”

“Exactly, and if she wants to be a waitress, she should do it well.”

When Harley insisted on interrogating Damian about his future plans, he replied in a completely serious tone:

“I plan to marry your daughter and call you ‘mother-in-law’ until the end of time.”

“YOU WON’T!”

“Just to annoy you, I will.”

And so the years passed.

Despite Harley’s jealousy, you and Damian stayed together.

You overcame fights, challenges, family crises, villain attacks, and oh yes, the near end of the world.

And when adulthood arrived, when there were no more excuses, when life pushed you to make a decision, you made it.

You moved in with Damian.

It was a difficult goodbye.

Not because you wouldn’t see her again, but because it was the end of an era.

You stood at the front door, your bags ready, with Damian waiting for you in the car, and Harley...

Looking at you with an expression you had never seen before.

For the first time, she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t jealous, or annoyed, or dramatic.

Just... sad.

“So...,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “So this is how it goes, huh?”

“This is how it goes.”

“You become an adult, make your own decisions, leave with your boyfriend... and leave me alone like a crazy old woman.”

“Mom...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, raising a hand. “I’m strong. I can handle it. Just tell me one thing, sweetheart...”

She paused, her blue eyes shining with something between nostalgia and pride.

“Are you happy?”

It took you a moment to answer.

Because there were so many things to say.

So many memories, so many moments, so many laughs, so many absurd fights, so many times you wanted to escape but always came back.

And yet, you could only say what mattered.

“Yes, Mom. I’m happy.”

Harley took a deep breath.

And, without warning, hugged you.

A long, strong hug, one of those that leave a mark.

“Then...,” she whispered against your hair. “It’s okay.”

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished she could stop time, no matter how unprepared she would ever be to let you go...

She let you go.

But you knew one thing for sure.

No matter where you were, or with whom, or how grown-up you became.

There would always be a part of you that would be that little girl stealing marshmallows with her mom in the kitchen.

And always, no matter the distance, no matter the future, no matter the time...

You would come home.

[kelbottumbles]

Eddie isn't going to be a fire fighter in El Paso. Forget the fact that he only gave Bobby the bare minimum notice before leaving and doesn't have a referral set up. He's walking away from more than just Buck and the 118 fam, he's walking away from his entire identity outside of being a *Dad*, and that includes being a firefighter. He's giving it all up, everything except Christopher. Partly as a form of self-punishment, and also because he thinks if he can be all-in on that one thing, then it can be enough. He can make it enough, because Christopher is his number one, and he hurt Christopher and needs to make it up to him, and that's all that matters right? Definitely not Eddie's happiness, that is the LAST thing that matters, in a world where Christopher isn't part of his life.

So Eddie gets an easy-to-get job that requires a strong body and few qualifications... construction. Or some similarly blue-collar job that doesn't require a skilled trade license. Maybe there's an accident or emergency at his jobsite that requires him to remember a bit about who he really is. But it won't be enough.

He'll start working on his extreme fixer-upper of a house *that Buck warned him about*. During the process, maybe he'll meet up with an old friend or old bully or someone he used to know. Maybe it's a contractor he's hired to help fix his house up, or maybe someone at his new job. But the point is, this person used to be all toxic masculinity and machismo, just like he was taught to be. But now, he finds out they're gay and have a husband and kids and are HAPPY and he'll ask them what happened? What changed? How did they figure it out? And this person will tell him a touching story of friendship, partnership, and choosing love - and everything they tell Eddie reminds him of Buck. The gears start turning in his head. But he isn't ready yet. Things aren't fixed with Christopher yet. He can't choose Buck until he has resolved things with his son. But maybe he's on the path to knowing what he wants, at this point.

Then - a disaster. Eddie's house is destroyed in a way that allows him to walk away with no lost investment or long term commitment he can't get out of. My guess? An electrical fire, because the house was so run down - and Buck WARNED him it was too run down. Regardless, the house is destroyed but Eddie will recoup his money through insurance, and now doesn't have anything *physically* tying him to El Paso anymore.

He will move in with his parents because he has no other choice. Tensions will RISE, and he will be confronted by (and have the opportunity to confront) his past. There will be an argument with his parents, and Christopher will overhear and step in to defend his dad. He finally gets an idea of what Eddie grew up with, why he is like he is and how different his grandparents were to Eddie than they are to him. This will spur a heart-to-heart between Eddie and Christopher where they FINALLY reconnect.

But this time, Eddie just isn't the *dad* who is strong and doesn't show any weakness. He will be human, vulnerable. Honest. And through Chris, he will get forgiveness, and finally find that he can forgive himself. This could also be where he admits his feelings about being away from Buck to Chris, and Chris urges him to go home to LA. Either they go back together, or Chris asks to finish the school year in Texas first - but promises to actually call and talk to him now, so Eddie won't be missing out on his whole life like he felt like he was before.

Eddie will return to LA whole and healed and ready to go after what he needs to make him happy. He will understand what he needs, and what he doesn't need. And he will know he needs Buck.

And because Eddie never tells anybody anything (and despite all his growth he's still EDDIE) rather than calling first, he will just show up on Buck's doorstep one day unannounced, in a parallel to the door scenes we had in 8x09 and 8x06.

Just watch. It's gonna happen. Especially Eddie's house getting destroyed and him recouping the insurance money. And if it does just remember me and my fellow conspiracy theorist @dana-duchovny told you first ;)

[nickmarini]

Hello Nick!! Your role in Downfall was so amazing and I love the extreme nuances and choices shown in your role playing.

Can you share any how you used terms like “child”, “son” and “father” when referring to the dawn father? Was it separately characteristics of the same god or more showing perspectives in those moments as the mortal avatar? I am fascinated and it make me scratch my brain thinking of possibilities.

Thank you so much!

#CR Downfall

Thank you for saying that, and great question!

This is a round about answer but a lot of that wordplay came from simply the name. Dawnfather is such a name rich in meaning. Both aspects of it have ties to time and new beginnings.

Dawn is the suns' rise each morning, born anew to herald the coming day. Its consistent return gives mortals the ability to track the weeks, the seasons, and the years. To even learn that the suns' patterns can allow one to divine the seasons takes years of thoughtful study. Dawn dispels the darkness and stimulates natures growth. It’s constantly new and also always constant.

Father. One cannot become a father without time. To be a father, one must have been a child, it is a stage of life that must be reached. It necessitates change and growth as much as the dawn does. A father knows what it is to have been a child, to have been the dawn, and now he watches over it, paving the way for the new. If I’m going to show a different side of the Dawnfather then showing that previous stage of life seemed interesting.

Within his name itself is this story of growth. His was the first light, he fathered the dawn, and he has kept watch through the ages as the keeper the time. Sun, summer, time, agriculture, harvest, he is a hands on god, consistent, dutiful, present, with his hands in the dirt, it is what he knows. To become mortal and not tend to the world is hard for him.

Ayden is young, he is new, he is the Dawn, but not yet the Father. He is an aspect, the Dawnfathers hope sent down to Exandria to aid his siblings. He has more abilities pertaining to agriculture than the sun because that is the Dawnfathers newest domain. He comes late because the Dawnfather wants to wait till the absolute last minute to abandon his post. He has yet to make the journey.

All this to say that I wanted to explicitly show him growing from this experience. Ayden is not the Dawnfather we know…yet, he is the Dawnchild, on his journey. He has not toiled for ages tending to the world. I believe that the Dawnfather pre and post divergence is quite different. I think the divine gate separates him from the hands on nature of his expressed divinity. I think Ayden was a way to show this dawning realization that to be a good father one must empathize with children but also sometimes make the hard decisions for them, something they do not always agree with.

I wanted to play with him being both a part of the greater whole of the Dawnfather, and something seperate. His literal age of 15 means he is not fully formed despite being infused with the divine soul of the Dawnfather. Getting to play with “child” “son” and “father” let me highlight the differences and illuminate the growth that happens during this time of mortal incarnation and explore the inner turmoil with the Dawnfather himself as his various aspects interact with one another.

There is also precedent in some belief systems of Sun gods birthing themselves or being replaced by their own mortal incarnations. I think for a diety that rises anew each day it’s natural to associate imagery of rebirth or the journey of child to father.

And lastly I think it shouldn’t be overstated how much effect the Everlight and Trist had on Ayden. Nearly half of his levels are devoted to her. I think that sort of reinforces his mortal shell in a unique way and gives him the opportunity to be two things at once more fully.

[asofspades]

Finding out that there's people who say they started hating either Will or Nico after TSATS, or that "Will deserves better", makes me think some people have 0 critical thinking skills, like, you can like a character more or less and even have a favourite, but how can you genuinely read TSATS and conclude any of these horrendous takes I've seen:

- "Will has no personality outside of Nico" (we have insights to his doubts and worries regarding his role as a medic, a son of Apollo and his growth regarding his aversion to anything "dark")

- "Their only appeal is they're ligh X dark character" (the text is specifically about them realising they're not one dimensional and both have dark and light inside)

- "Nico/Will is selfish" (they're both self-sacrificial idiots, you don't even need to read tsats to see that)

- "Nico/Will deserves better" (I'm sorry did you just skip the whole book, because their growth as individuals and as a couple is obvious)

- "they're too cheesy/cringe" (half the cringe stuff is jokes like it was with Leo, they're also 14-15 and it's their first relationship, I am an aromantic person who generally doesn't like sappy romance and I didn't die reading this, you'll be fine)

- "they only made them a couple to show Nico can only be happy as a gay guy is he's in a relationship" (gay people can be happy single sure,however I feel like you might've missed the whole plot of the book, also we know what would've happened about Nico being gay in the fandom if he had stayed single, and I happen to find joy in seeing young queer couples learning how to have a proper relationship in media)

- "they're so grumpyxsunshine coded" (can we please stop reducing characters to a single aspect when they're multidimensional characters whose personality and thoughts are explored through the piece of media you read that lead to this comment)

- "Will is too controlling" (I'm sorry, are we reading the same book? Chat, is being worried about your very reckless and self sacrificial boyfriend who happens to have an ability that exhausts him and makes him pass out and encourage him to only use it for emergencies and have food and drinks ready for them when they do controlling?)

[basementloser]

I would've loved an episode in which Danny and Dash switch bodies.

I imagine it happens because Dash is talking to Kwan about how cool Phantom is or something, and at some point he says "Man, I wish I was Danny Phantom!"

Of course Desiree hears this, she appears before him ("So you have wished it, so shall it be!"), and the next day Dash wakes up in Danny's body. Danny Fenton's body. In Danny's room.

At this point he's pretty familiar with Desiree, and he assumes she just heard him wrong, befause Fenton and Phantom do sound alike. ("Huh, how weird! How has no one noticed this before?" We hear Wes screaming in the distance as Dash makes this observation.)

But there is no way in hell that a puny little nerd like Fenton could be Dash's hero, so something must've gone wrong. He decides to find Desiree and correct his wish.

-

Meanwhile, Danny (to his horror) wakes up in Dash's body.

He assumes he overshadowed him for some reason, but when he tries to leave, he finds out he doesn't have his powers. He also doesn't feel Dash's presence in the body.

"I know i asked for a growth spurt, but not like this!"

This isn't good.

-

Dash makes his way downstairs, and is immediately greeted by Jack Fenton, who has a million chores for him.

"Come on, Danno! Those ghosts I fished out of the ghost zone with the Fenton Ghost Fisher™️ aren't gonna put themselves back!"

Before he can object he is pushed into the lab and has to fight a couple of ectopusses. This goes very badly at first, until Dash remembers the bit of ghost hunting training Danny gave him and his classmates, when they had to rescue their parents from that big pirate ship.

As soon as he's done, exhausted on the floor (Damn, Fenton really needs to work out more!), he hears Jack yelling down the stairs.

"Son, don't forget to change the ecto filtrator! You don't want Amity Park to blow up, do ya?"

More dangerous chores keep getting added for longer than Dash thought was humanly possible.

(At some point Jack gave him some fudge, which helped.)

How does Fenton live like this???

-

We switch back over to Danny, who is now looking around Dash's room. He already knew about the cute pink teddy bear collection, but he didn't expect to find what can only be described as a fan shrine to Phantom.

There are newspaper articles, pictures, merch ("Wait I have merch? How come i didn't know that? Who is selling Phantom merch?" it's Tucker), and a poster.

(the b-story of this episode is Sam & Tucker running a Phantom merch line, and trying to stop the Box Ghost from stealing all the boxes of merch.)

Danny keeps looking around Dash's room, and finding out more about him through his stuff.

At some point he finds Dash's diary. He contemplates if he should read it or not, but in the end he decides that since Dash is always such a jerk to him, he doesn't care about morals and reads it.

Reading the diary, Danny starts to feel kinda bad, because in the entries Dash actually seems human. He's insecure, and he actually struggles with a lot. He's afraid to talk about what he's going through.

His parents are very absent, and the A-listers kicked Valerie out when her life wasn't perfect anymore. He doesn't want that to happen to him.

(I personally headcanon Dash as an extremely closeted gay guy with a lot of internalised homophobia, who hasn't stopped trying to convince himself that he's straight, but his struggles could be about anything.)

After reading all that, Danny starts to feel kinda bad for him.

-

Over the course of the day ghosts keep showing up to fight or talk to Fenton, and Dash is incredibly confused by this. Also Danny must have a weird cold or something, because he's been exhaling cold air at random all day.

"I AM THE BOX GHO- Hey! Wait! Why are you running away? You never run away. You always trap me in your cylindrical contraption of doOoOoOm!" (The Box Ghost is wearing a Phantom t-shirt, and is holding a box full of other Phantom merch. After Dash runs away, Sam and Tucker appear, chasing the Box Ghost through the street, trying to get the merch back.)

Later Johnny 13 shows up to fight, because he and Kitty broke up for the 4th time this week, and he wants to let out some steam. "Shouldn't you change for our fight, kid?" Change into what? Wait he wanted to fight, right? Dash puts on his gym uniform, and boxing gloves. Johnny looks at him weird, but doesn't question it. They have a little boxing match in the backyard.

Youngblood came by to play astronauts with him, and was very disappointed that Danny didn't fly up to space with him. (Wait didn't that dead kid kidnap Dash's parents??! Also why in the hell does he think Fenton has the ability to fly?????!! And breathe(!) in space?!!!)

After finishing what seems like a billion ghost related chores (and dealing with way too many ghosts), Dash finally manages to get out of the Fenton house, and starts to look for Desiree.

-

Danny walks out of Dash's room, and runs into Dash's dad. He opens his mouth, but he doesn't seem to care about what he's going to say. "Son I am so incredibly disappointed in you." the dad starts, then continues to list all the reasons he is a huge disappointment who should try harder. "Those weird little bears in your closet!" and "Why don't you have a girlfriend yet?"

The whole interaction is horrible, and makes Danny appreciate his own parents (weird as they may be) so much.

Dash's mom also berates him about being a disappointment, because they found his Phantom collection ("He is a GHOST, Dash! He's dangerous!"), and because his grades are so low. ("What do you mean tutor? Just study harder!")

They threaten to take Pookie away if he doesn't get his shit together.

-

At some point Danny has deduced that this body situation must be some ghost bullshit, and he decides to go to Fentonworks.

Then he runs into Dash in his body, and they have a little spiderman moment

After the internal shock and "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY BODY GET OUT!"s have gone around, Dash tells Danny what happened.

Danny informs Dash that most of Desiree's wishes become permanent after 24 hours. They decide to team up to get Desiree to undo this wish before that happens.

It's noted that Dash didn't say the word "puny" or any other insult, when he says "I really don't wanna stay in your body.".

We see a compilation of Danny and Dash searching Amity Park for Desiree, and other wishes she has granted. They fight off a couple of small ghost things together.

(during this compilation we see Sam and Tucker chasing the Box Ghost around. "How is he this hard to catch?? We've done this millions of times already!!!" -"Well maybe if you didn't drop the fucking thermos!")

After the fight, Dash sighs and says "Man, I had no idea how difficult your life is, Fenton. I've only been living it a day and it sucks."

they have a little heart to heart, and Dash sincerely apologises for bullying Danny so much.

"why did you want to be Phantom anyway? I assume his life isn't that easy either." Danny says.

"I dunno, man. I just thought it would be cool to be, y'know, going ghost."

White rings appear around Dash. He turns into Phantom.

they have another moment like this:

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

"I"M- I- YOU- YOU'RE PHANTOM??!!!"

"NO! YES! NO TIME! FIGHT HER!!!"

Because of course, this is the moment that Desiree appears, and starts fighting them.

"I dont know how!!!"

The beginning of the fight is very awkward, with Dash not knowing how Danny's powers work, and Danny not being used to fighting Desiree without his powers.

Eventually they get the hang of it, with Danny telling Dash how to activate and use certain powers in the moment, and they defeat Desiree.

All the wishes get undone, and they suck her up into a thermos.

After that, they talk about Danny being Phantom. Danny tells Dash the story of how he died got his powers, and Dash shares some of his secrets with Danny so they're "even". (it's some stuff that wasn't in Dash's diary. Danny doesn't mention that he read that, but that can be conflict in a later episode)

They aren't friends yet, but it's a start. Now that he walked a mile in Danny's shoes, Dash feels so bad about bullying him all those years, and he starts to question his life choices. (start of a Dash redemption arc i guess). He promises to stop bullying in general, and help out Danny however he can. (He also promises to not tell anyone about Danny's secret identity.)

(The episode ends with Sam and Tucker, having finally caught the Box Ghost, only to realise that in the chase/fight all the merch got way too messed up to sell, so it was all for nothing. Tucker throws the thermos down in frustration, the Box Ghost gets free, grabs the Phantom shirt he wore earlier, yells "BEWARE!" and flies off. Sam sighs and gets ready to start chasing him again, but Tucker stops her. "I give up. Let him have the fucking shirt.")

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Looking at the parts on Númenor in Unfinished Tales (and the LOTR appendix chronology) made me notice something Tolkien does with the history of Númenor that is very thoughtful, very important, and often neglected by other fantasy authors: he distinguishes between fighting on the right side and being the good guys, and he even delves into how those two things can work against each other.

Three times in particular, the Númenoreans help to defend Middle-Earth against Sauron. In Aldarion’s time, in the 800s, Aldarion spends much time establishing and rebuilding a port/haven on the coast of southern Eriador, to guard against invasion of the north through what will later be the Gap of Rohan. In 1700, Tar-Minastir sends a large force to drive back Sauron and rescue Gil-galad and Elrond and their people after the forging of the Rings and the destruction of Eregion. And, of course, near the end of the Second Age Ar-Pharazon sends the vast fleet and army that takes Sauron captive.

And each of these times are associated with successive stages in Númenor’s moral decline.

Aldarion is the first warning sign. His father, Tar-Meneldur, a wise man, discourages his voyaging, accurately fearing that it “sows the seeds of recklessness and the desire of other lands to hold”. Aldarion likewise marks the beginning of Númenoreans regarding nature as something to be valued for its use rather than for itself: trees as timber, not as forests. This is also when the Númenoreans begin to log Eriador - their logging will eventually be so extensive that, whereas virtually the whole area from the coast to the Misty Mountains to the Gap of Rohan was forested at the start of the Second Age, by the time of LOTR only the tiny fragment of the Old Forest remains. It’s not for nothing that the trees there are hostile to Men (and Hobbits). (This may not have been happening in the same way in Aldarion’s time - in Númenor he spends great efforts on replanting trees, nothwithstanding the ecological distinction between ‘tree plantations’ and ‘forests’, and he may have done the same in Middle-earth - but it’s still the starting point.)

And he does work extensively in Middle-earth to build defences against Sauron (or ‘the shadow in the east’; they don’t know it’s Sauron yet) and is described as “the friend and counsellor of Gil-Galad.” Yet the very growth in power, pragmatism, and expansionism that is involved in doing this is the start of Númenor’s downward path.

Next, we have Tar-Minastir, who drives back Sauron from Eregion during the War of the Elves and Sauron, following the forging of the Rings of Power, when Gil-galad, Elrond, and the Elves of Eregion are almost defeated. Unfinished Tales says “he loved the Eldar but envied them” and built a high tower to gaze westwards towards Valinor. And it is in the immediate aftermath of his rule that Númenor enters its phase of exploitative imperialism: his son Tar-Ciryatan is “a mighty king, but greedy of wealth; he built a great fleet of royal ships, amd his servants brought back great store of metal and gems, and oppressed the men of Middle-earth.” The next king, Tar-Atanamir, likewise “exacted heavy tribute from the men of the coasts of Middle-earth”, and was the first to be openly hostile to the Valar and the Eldar. The Silmarillion describes Ciryatan and Atanamir as “proud men, eager for wealth” who “laid the men of Middle-earth under tribute, taking now rather than giving”.

(As an aside: this is a period where I’m particularly curious about what Gil-galad and Elrond were thinking, and the decisions they had to make. The Númenoreans have just recently decisively rescued them, and it may not be going too far to say the Elves of Eregion and Lindon are military dependent on Númenor. And yet the Númenoreans are now mistreating and oppressing the men of Middle-earth. How to balance military/political pragmatism and ethics? Are the Númenoreans friends or not? Should they be trying to do anything to stop Númenorean empire? Can they do anything? Does benefitting from Númenorean military might while not doing anything make them complicit? Do they try to talk to the Númenoreans? And for Elrond in particular, on top of the moral vs pragmatic concerns, there’s the knowledge that it’s his brother’s descendents and successors who are doing this - in a sense, the only family he has left.)

And lastly, of course, we have Ar-Pharazon, who defeats Sauron but without being any better than Sauron, and who is corrupted by him, wreaks devastation on the men of Middle-earth and on his political opponents at home, and leads Númenor to its destruction.

It feels like this reinforces the themes of The Lord of the Rings, that victory over evil is not one by seeking to overpower it, but by renunciation of power. The downfall of Númenor highlights this by contrast by showing the corrupting force of accumulated imperial power, even when used against a foe that is genuinely evil.

[pricegouge]

assassin anon again! There's a sword 🗡️ emoji. If it's not taken I will have it!

Still obsessed with papochka. Poor daughter!reader who's been raised isolated from pretty much anyone else. Only a nanny/tutor who aren't even around since she's an adult now. She can count on one hand how many times she's seen Nik. She's so sheltered she's afraid to leave home.

She has an accident. Something like falling off her horse or falling down the stairs. Either way she breaks a leg and maybe a wrist or something else.

Nik comes to check on her and she's just instantly attached to him. Super clingy and weepy because she's in pain and her Papochka is finally around taking care of her. And oh man will Nik take care of her. Why not just sleep in his bed with him? That way he can be close by if she needs something. Don't mind if she wakes up to him grinding against her.

*emerges from the google doc like i'm rising from the fucking dead* it's the fact that you have no idea what you did to me when you hit send that keeps killing me lmao.

this screamed princess locked away in a tower vibes to me so i hope you don't mind i made it into an extremely poorly defined medieval/fantasy au and then proceeded to completely out myself as a complete slut for fantasy and spend seven thousand words just having fun with it 🙄

anyway, i imagine nik as some lesser lord. maybe just a landed knight even, granted some run down keep out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of land, as a thank you from his liege lord after an act of valor.

cw: f!reader. incest, skirting awful close with grooming. power imbalance/reader is very sheltered. period appropriate terms for pussy (sorry. i tried to make it as sexy as possible but sometimes it really makes or breaks the scene), virginity kink, multiple orgasms. touch starvation. minor character death, one of which is hinted at foul play but it's only mentioned in one line. please lmk if i missed anything. MDNI

it's easy to get himself a wife once he has a keep, harder to hold her. i can see her fading away after years spent in such isolation, growing more and more melancholy and distant until one day she just. well. the wounds on her wrists, it's hard to imagine such a gentile lady doing something like that, but it must have been what happened? surely?

she never gave him a son, but he's left with the daughter. you're a sweet little gurgling thing he doesn't know what to do with, especially not when duty calls and he's needed elsewhere again. so he gets a handmaid - of sorts. in truth he doesn't quite know what she is, her language one he's not overly familiar with, but she was hard at work in his lord's scullery when he found her and it was a simple matter to ask for another favor, really, even if she wails the whole time. 

war's war, a hard thing to pull away from when you've proven yourself as well as nikolai. harder still when your liege is a greedy man. he's rarely home, misses much of your growth. but his travels take him far and wide and he learns to speak the language of the handmaid, a good thing considering it's what you come to speak, his own daughter's tongue foreign to him. so far removed. like your mama, really, but where his wife had faded in isolation, you appear to thrive.

hard to miss something you never had, he supposes, but if that were true, he shouldn't miss you, not when he hardly even knows you, not when you don't even call him papa in the proper language. but he misses you like he misses his hearth - warm embrace and scent of home. he's ashamed to admit it, but it heats his blood some nights, when the loneliness of the road weighs on him. he's only a man and you've grown quick, as far as he can tell. one minute clutching the maid's skirts and the next helping her in the kitchen, grain enmeshed in the coarse weave of your sleeves. you're a lady, of some fashion - at least when compared to how he grew up - but you're content with this simple life, happy with the dirt under your fingernails. and what man could want for more? a simple woman at home to welcome him with soft arms and the scent of bread?

though he does want more for you, wants to spoil you like the proper little lady you are, his printsessa, so graceful, but ladies come with courts, whole teams of servants at your beck and call to feed you properly, brush your hair and bathe you. 

stable hands to teach you riding, shoe your horses for you.

more cocks in the roost.

you're the light of his life, his sweet dochka, so he can't be blamed for growing covetous. illiberal. it's unwise, will make you an undesirable match later in life when you can't do the things most ladies are supposed to, but there's nothing for it except to keep you squirreled away at home, no one to talk to besides your sweet maid who keeps you unlearned and simple, helpless even to speak with the rabble when you are permitted to walk to town on your maid's arm. 

helpless even to know you need help, until your maid grows too old to take you, too frail to feed herself. nikolai's away for that bit, returns some months later to find you beside yourself, hysterical. stir crazy. he's just grateful the old baba was clever enough to tell you how to dispose of her body - though you didn't do a very good job, the shallow grave you'd dug empty when he finds it under a tree in the east pasture. wolves, likely. he'll have to take care of them before he leaves again. 

it ends up being his longest stay at home in nearly twenty years. a good thing, too, because you need the time almost as much as he does, nerves unwinding under his care after so many months alone. you care for him too, when he lets you, singing to him by the fire until he nods off, thoughts too sluggish to keep up with the translation, your strange foreign tales washing over him until it's just sounds, just the lovely lilt of your voice. you're like a little bird. his little bird, so sweet.

he wants to keep you, clip your feathers, but he can't maintain them from half across the kingdom and there's no one at home to do it for him, so he has to trust you - for now.

the horse frightens you, and he tells you it well should, though it's no destrier, the gentle palfrey shirking from his own mount with flared nostrils and agitated huffs. she's a docile little thing usually, barely even knows how to canter. he teaches you how to take care of her and you pout about the added chores, but there's no denying the excitement he sees in your eyes when you realize the autonomy he's given you. he dampens it with a word of caution.

"remember, radnaja, town holds no friends for you. without your maid, no one will understand you, and an unchaperoned lady will draw many an unwanted glance. you must only travel in the event of an emergency."

there's more peeping, some half-hearted arguments. he doesn't know how the commoners have received you in the past, but you give in easily enough so it can't be a great loss. at least, not enough to outweigh your eagerness to please him, thinking it will make him stay.

you've only just settled when the next call to arms comes and he has to listen to you weep all night, keeping him awake when he really needs the rest. there's no soothing you, no matter how many times he reiterates that you'll be okay, that he's fixed everything, set you up with a year's worth of grains and root veggies in the cellar, and deliveries of cured meats. you know how to milk the goats, how to slit their kids' throats come winter. he doesn't understand why you're so upset, but then, he didn't understand your mother either.

he starts to, though, in the long months that follow; the loneliness that eats at him. at night he hears the trill of your voice in his ear, feels your plush hips in his palms, your weight familiar after too many times helping you onto your horse. he's not a good man, nor a proud one. after long days of trudging and battle, he doesn't fight it - succumbs to the quickest, easiest fantasy; more fleshed out now than ever before. the little woman he's got at home. it's like fuel within him, a flame that only gets hotter the longer it burns. he stokes it daily and it feeds him in turn, makes him bloodthirsty, efficient. there's talk of granting him a larger keep by the end of it.

lace, silks. he pictures you in dresses that tie in the back, maids swarming around you like gnats to keep you primped and pretty. he'd swat them away and lace you up himself if he had his way, grunting with how tightly he pulls your stays. in his thoughts you're already a proper lady, one of those simpering little helpless things who gather around to welcome the lords home. he dreams of seeing you waiting for him at the field gate as he rides home, hair all plated and pretty. like church bells, calling him home, hastening his trip. sometimes he even sleeps in the saddle, the leagues flying underfoot. he's never been this eager to be home, but the years add up; and he aches, just wants to hear you sing to him, too see if you'll be good to your papa and rub his sore knee.

perhaps that's why he doesn't notice the horse at first.

he'd crossed the border onto his own land some miles back, driving his heel hard into the flank of his mount. pines whip past in an endless sea, but he knows the path well, a game trail he himself has carved. his horse notices the other before he does, slowing to a trot and trumpeting. odd. a hardened beast, the destrier did not often feint, but nikolai spots the issue after a quick glance around.

poor creature, eager at the first sight of tail. must be as hard up as him.

dismounting, nikolai tuts to see your reins untethered and calls for you, voice stern as he begins his lecture about the importance of hobbling your mount.

but you never come. not so much as a twig snaps in answer, his own echo all that greets him.

he doesn't panic. not yet. he ties your horse to his own and sets off again, pace much slower for the benefit of your fat little palfrey, keeping his ears strained as he continues to call for you.

your horse's trail is easy to follow, the soft old girl having eaten her way across the fields. the worry sets in the more the path winds, long miles looping over his acreage. aimless. where were you while your sweet little beast was roaming?

he finds you as the sun sets, weather beaten and weary. you can't put weight on your leg and you yelp when he tries to pull you up with a steady grip on your upper arm, but your voice is too creaky to explain why, face twisting in pain with tears that don't fall - the streaks down your pretty face long dried. you shriek when he throws you over your horse's back, though, screams raw and jagged as he rides hard for home.

the first night is the hardest, long hours spent fighting his own exhaustion as he tries to ply you with much needed food and water. you can't move from the bed, can't help yourself even enough to hold the spoon of broth, and he can see why in the mottling on your chest when your smock falls loose enough to show where the delicate bone there should arch. you scream when he hitches your skirts up, his hands too heavy against the deep bruising which runs high on your thigh, perfect ring of a hoofmark dotting dangerously close to your hip.

he's seen men die of complications from such wounds, knows how close you came to the death sentence that is a broken hip.

you try to follow him in the morning, too delirious to understand that he needs to fetch a physician. he ends up having to tie you to the bed, a poor attempt to keep you from injuring yourself further. he leaves you with water and soup, one hand left untied so you could reach it, while the other was bound to your chest, keeping your arm in place. in theory, you could untie yourself, though the knots are so tightly bound he doesn't have to worry. still, when he returns he finds your nails frayed and bloody, the jute rope on its last thread.

they cannot tell if your leg is broken, keep prodding at it with bony old gnarled fingers which he thinks about snapping, if only to remind them what they're looking for. the process makes you sob and shake and cling, your one good arm reaching back to hold him close as the other remains bound to your chest. he sits flush behind you the whole while, cradling you between his thighs. holding the wood they place between your teeth in place, he rocks you whenever able. a pathetic attempt to soothe. and he blames the tears that stain his cheeks on you. transfer from how tightly he holds you, surely.

you sleep after they leave, the tincture they'd given leaving you pliant and soft. even still you cling to him when he settles beside you, careful of the sling that holds you together. he should give you space, let you sleep, but the thought leaves his limbs leaded, too heavy to abide when he tries to pull away. he squired as a boy. they said it was an honor for one so base-born, but he knows now it was only a testament to his size, his strength. even then there was no hiding it, plucked from the village by a passing lord who knew a weapon when he saw one, dressed it up as an honor. he'd play at knighthood when his master was otherwise occupied, stealing away with bits of armor and swords. the first time he'd donned mail, it had nearly made him buckle under the burden, his body unused to the weight. he feels like that now. untried.

you gurgle when he peppers kisses along your hairline. he'd left you completely alone, unwatched. unguarded. he's lucky to have found you alive at all. if he'd been longer in coming, if he'd died in the cause -.

you cuddle closer, snuffling after more kisses. it eases something in his chest, some tightly wound spring he's unaccustomed to feeling, here in the safety of his own home. his next kiss lands lower, the bridge of your nose, then another high on your cheek. your lips part, a soft sound calling to him and he melts into you as much as he can without causing further harm, lips soft against your own.

his sweet, little bird. clipped wing, still singing.

—

thoughts come wispy, barely connected. spiderweb threads which weave in and out of consciousness. there's pain still, but it's lesser somehow. dulled around the edges. you vaguely remember being fed some sticky solution, the bite of it as it slipped down your throat. it had reminded you of the grain alcohol your father sometimes brought home, the stuff you would sneak sips of after he'd started snoring in his chair. it left you loose the same way. easy, passive.

but this didn't help the ache in that same way, the hollow chasm in your chest you've lived with ever since nana passed. it yawns now, needy and desperate. you whimper as you roll, searching, expecting nothing -

and find the warm musculature of another body.

despite your wishes, it's hard to resist the urge to spring up, shrieking, but you manage. instead you turn slowly, fearfully, and nearly sob in relief at the sight of your father's sleeping moue. it's strange, how quickly the lingering effects of your medicine seem to clear. physically, you remain languid, but you've not felt more alert since his last visit, the first time you sat astride your pretty pony and felt for the first time, some modicum of control. this is different, but the effect is the same, leaves your very veins singing with excitement, the tallest tree in the forest, recently struck from the heavens and burning from the inside. you want to consume him with yourself, divine retribution for leaving you alone. more so, you want him to already be with you - an owl at home in the hollowed knot of your chest when you were engulfed.

but he sleeps too peacefully, strong brow obscured by the strands of hair which have escaped his severe style. thick arms encase you, heavy in rest. comforting. you enjoy it as long as he lets you, fingers growing bolder as the morning stretches on, tracing up over his furry forearm, smoothing the folds of his shirt where it rides up to his elbow. he doesn't stink like you'd expect, melt water crisp. he must have washed the filth of the road off while you'd slept, and you can't help but luxuriate in it, craning your neck up to nudge against his throat until he grumbles and snuggles deeper, returning the favor. you play with the thick, gold chain he wears and lay it flat as you can manage against his broad chest, intimate your knuckles with the coarse stubble of his jaw. he wakes when you push his hair back into place, catching your wrist in his big paw so quickly that it makes you jump, crying out when the sharp pain cuts through your hunger.

his grip turns soothing instantly, "shh, shh, malýshka, settle."

"you scared me," you pout, and then pout some more when he levels you with a warning look, rather unearned.

"and you scared me," he counters, kissing the inside of your wrist. his lips are hot against your skin, a relief from the chill of the early spring air. you tuck it back under the blanket when he releases you, the heat built under the cover more than enough to keep you warm; although you realize as your palm settles over the rough spun linen that you've been stripped to your chemise and briefly marvel at that possibility. he emits heat like the hearth, fresh fed. mornings are usually a frigid affair, the coals having guttered, leaving you shivering. but in your father's arms you are content. lazy. happy to sink your fingers into the fur of his belly where his shirt rides up and stave off the frost.

until he tries to squirm away.

"father, please," you whine, grasping for him.

slumping back beside you, he groans, hand over his eyes as if he can't even look at you. "i'll not go far, radnaja."

"just another moment, please? you're so warm."

he grunts when you try to wriggle closer, heavy hand falling on your belly. "and you're needy."

unfair, all things considered, but you don't think it's worth mentioning as much, so you settle for reminding him you're hurt.

"and last time i was home, hm? were you hurt then as well?"

teasing, but you don't find it so funny. "can a heart not hurt?"

he doesn't seem to know what to say to that, instead huffs once more, breath warm against your face, and rolls away, slipping your grasp easily. his tunic is loose, untied at the collar. you've never noticed how hairy he is, pelt a deep contrast to the chain. it's good work, you think - not that you're overly familiar with the intricacies of fine metalcraft, but you've never seen anything like it, thick links so packed and tight it more closely resembled his mail than a proper piece of jewelry. you wondered where he'd acquired it, knew full well the smithy in town could never manage such finery. it was hard not to be a bit jealous, though the nature of it surprised you.

in all your nana's stories, such gifts were only given by loved ones.

~~~

he cooks potatoes and rashers of ham for breakfast. fresh ham, must've brought it with him when he returned. you lay on the bed and salivate, fingers itching. restless and impatient by turns. your nana would have taken a switch to your knuckles if she found you abed while your father cooked, but he seems unbothered by the work, if unpracticed. he lingers when he brings your plate, torn. you try to scoot up the cot to give him space, imply invitation, but he turns away when he sees you wince with the movement, settling at the table where the cold spring light is transmuted, glowing golden as it filters through the horn slats which pane the windows.

your nana's stories have never mentioned beautiful men, at least none like him - burly, old; more bear than man. you've no way with words, but you think you could write new stories, better, paint his hard, weathered body in a kinder light. if only he'd sit still.

"if you leave again, i'll die."

chewing, he eyes you over, the bulky shape of your awkward arm visible through the woolen blanket. that is not what to what you refer. "da. appears you are stuck with me for a while."

there's no hiding the excitement in your voice, not that you're socialized enough to know you should try. "you'll stay?"

another bite, fatty slice. he tears at it like a stray dog, tendons of his neck flexing as he works the piece between sharp teeth. "no choice."

it's not quite what you want to hear, but it soothes you nonetheless, a soft counterpoint to the ache that's slowly rebuilding in your leg. "what will you do if you're summoned again?"

he just shrugs, imparts some saying in his language, no doubt wise. "tell them to 'piss off,' i suppose."

"and after? when i'm healed?" if you heal.

blunt fingers drum on the table. he eyes you like a problem to be solved. "after, i leave."

he's unexpectedly sympathetic when you cry, cooing as he crawls onto the bed beside you. he speaks words that sound reassuring, but they aren't all in your shared tongue and you can only sniffle, holding onto him for all you're worth. you tell him you don't want him to leave, but he just nods, curling around you as best he can. you don't tell him that he jostles you too much, keep your grimace under tight control, the ache of the movement worth the comfort of his care.

despite the pain, you gather you can't have broken your leg when he lifts them gingerly, folds his own up under yours until the tops of his thighs rest under your rump. he's still gentle when he lowers you legs overtop his own, palm heavy and warm he slides it up your tender leg to palm at your hip, drag you closer into the wall of his chest. he's on your good side, knows it; pulls you so close your shoulder gets wedged into your side, pushing your breasts together. you brace his chest instinctively with the fingers of your uselessly bound arm when he leans over you, lips chapped and hot against your hairline as he keeps murmuring, language a tangled knot you can't unwind.

it's not what you're focused on, regardless.

your father is a large man, large enough that he'd single handedly skewed your perception of how a man should look. it wasn't until you were grown, standing next to the blacksmith while he fashioned some lock for nana that you'd realized it. the largest man in town, and you still came up to his chin - though he was admittedly slightly broader than your father. you'd come to appreciate your father's stature on his last visit, the ease with which he'd help lift you into your saddle, the way his height loomed over you making you feel safe, secure. here, now, his broad chest blocking out the room as he leans over you, heavy weight braced on an arm which flexes deliciously as he ducks to peck kisses across your face, you feel a little faint, the ghost of his hands on your hips making you ache to your core - that hollow pit, low in your belly, an emptiness that surpassed hunger, rivaled even that loneliness that's made a home in your chest.

it would eat you soon, if not fed.

"father, please. it hurts," you warble like a baby bird, maw agape. expectant.

he doesn't feed you, eats from you, instead. takes more, mouth hot and open against your own. you wonder if he's just as hollow. "i know, devochka, but you'll be better soon, hm? just need to let your papa take care of you, yes? need -."

"no." you whine when he pulls away, chase his lips as he sits back above you, out of reach. you forget to elaborate until he arches a brow at you, waiting. "not that… not there. here."

desideration has weight, caves your tummy when his eyes follow the path of your good hand low into the cradle of where he's got your legs hitched. he leans back further, bears his weight full on his side so his big paw can climb over the hills of your body, slip south like so many raids. when he presses, applies force, the sharpness of your hunger shocks you, breath going ragged. it draws his attention, dark eyes snapping up to your face so he can track how your lips part when he does it again, the way your eyes go slightly unfocused. it's strange, how he can stoke the fire within you while somehow also making you feel as close to quenched as you ever have.

it scares you. "should you get the doctor again?" something perilously close to anger curls his lip, sets you floundering beneath him, afraid to have disappointed. "sorry, it's only -."

"i have you, malýshka. papa will make it better."

this time when he lowers himself over you, he lets you take his weight, hand staying put on your belly. his other arm curls under your neck, props you up so he can return to his biting kisses, the ones that let him drink soft noises from your lips and feed you with his heavy huffs. you've never kissed like this before, his quick pecks normally placed on the corner of your mouth, or the divot above your lips. nana only ever kissed your cheeks, sweet things which had unfortunately grown sloppy with her age, often left you amused, if mildly disgusted. these are sloppy kisses too, his tongue hot and wet as it slips over your teeth. you imagine biting into it, an undercooked slice of meat, the hot flow of his lifesblood over your jowls. when your stomach flips, it is not with disgust.

you don't realize he's worked your skirt up over your hips with slow, clutching fingers until you feel them on your skin, calloused and warm above the thatch of hair that covers your woman's place. "father?" you whine and he tsks at you, tongue very nearly clicking on your own teeth with how close he stays.

"call me papa, radnaja. about time you learned to speak proper."

it feels good on your tongue, the soft pops as your lips brush against his. must sound good to him as well, for he doesn't wait to hear your question once you've spoken it, mouth returning to yours with a renewed hunger.

"papa, please, what are you -?"

his fingers are too rough when he hikes your good leg further over his hip, baring your flower. you yelp but he just eats that, too, breath turning ragged as it fans across your lips when his palm returns to cup your woman's place. even grabbing his wrist does no good, your fingers like brittle little branches which he shakes off with ease.

"told you, malýshka. papa's gonna make it better, hm? know what you need."

"but nana said not to touch there, not when i'm hungry."

you worry you've misspoken when he leans away from you, brow knitted. "hungry?"

"when i'm empty -," you start, try again more confidently when you wrangle his hand back up to that achy spot, low in your tummy. "when it hurts."

embarrassment blooms as he releases a shaky laugh, palm splayed wide over your belly. you try to wriggle from under him, but the arm tucked beneath your neck pulls you back, bicep bulging as he keeps you in place with a quiet shh. "your nana was right, dochka, and what a good girl you've been to have listened. but do you know why she said not to touch?" he shakes his head when you do, vaguely patronizing. "of course not, milaya, tak khorosho. she was protecting your maidenhead. do you know what that is?" this time when you shake your head, you're rewarded with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hand pressing against your belly until you squirm again. "that's your gift, sweet girl. for your husband. but until you give it to him, do you know who it belongs to?"

you've never noticed how dark his eyes are, almost black. his grin is vicious when you shake your head again.

"to your papa, glupaya devchonka, so i'll touch you there if i please."

this time it's your head that follows after his, bobbing along absently as he nods encouragingly. your hand covers his as best it can, pushes it down toward the apex of your thighs - your gift. he said he knew what to do and you're eager, the ache worse than ever.

"that's right, little one. i've got you. papa will make it better, hm? fill you up." that last is a growl against your lips. a threat. he hikes your leg impossibly higher and tells you to hold it there, hip aching slightly. it's like he knows, thumb digging cruelly into the taut tendon that stems from your core as he palms one of your cheeks and spreads you for his inspection, fingers slotting embarrassingly along your seam. but he seems unbothered, and you suppress the whine that builds in your chest, heat flushing up your neck.

"ty by posmotrel na eto…" feather light, calloused pads trail up and over your flower. "such a pretty little thing."

your stomach leaps, his compliments far too rare. "th- thank you, papa."

dipping further, he sighs when he finds your dew hidden amongst your petals. "ought to thank you," he mutters, then steals your breath with another kiss, swallowing your gasp as his fingers pull up, brush over something which makes you jolt so hard your chest aches.

"wha - what -?"

he just coos. "shshsh. have to be still, malýshka. don't want you getting hurt again."

it seems inevitable. the whole process - too big, too much.

he's going to leave again.

"papa, please…"

"i know, i'll help." and maybe he does, in a way, but he's only ever made things worse, too; so when he works you over, panting heavily against your cheek as his fingers stroke that hard pearl he's found until you're a writhing mess he has to lean on to keep still, you aren't surprised when the tears fall, overwhelmed and scared. he kisses them away, touch still wringing slow, lazy shudders from you until your breath comes ragged, stomach heaving with toomuchsomuchnotenoughstillnotfull.

he waits until you're hiccupping to fold your knee up to your chest, hips hitching impossibly closer under yours. his breeches are roughspun, the suede placket soaked and sticky when it slots up under your cunt. embarrassment cuts through the haze of your pleasure when you realize it's your own juices, tips you over that edge of panic you'd been riding.

must be, he doesn't care. he calls you 'milaya,' asks if you can take more. you shake your head and he just huffs in amusement, hand already reaching past your cunt to unfasten his stays.

"father, no!" you shriek, pushing at his chest as much as you're able. he ignores you until you slip your bad leg off his own, trying to pull away despite the pain.

"ostorozhnyy!" he barks, settling you back into place. "where do you think you're going?"

nonsensically, you sob, "nowhere!"

"certainly seemed like -."

"i don't want you to go!"

you know little of battle, experience limited to the tales your nana would tell, and those more focused on the outcome than the practice. still, you're reminded of a bow when he stalls, tension in his poise, drawn tight. he looms over you, impossibly big. blocks out everything else, no getting past him. "radnaja," he hedges and your neck creaks with how quickly you turn away from him, try to hide your face in your broken shoulder. of course, he follows, elbow cracking when it catches his weight so he can lean over you, press his nose hard into your cheek. "milaya, look at me. look." his fingers are soft against your jaw, turning you back towards him with the utmost care. "i'll not leave you again. where i go, you follow, hm?"

unable to meet his eyes, your voice aches as it rips through your raw throat. "you promise?"

he doesn't, not until you look at him properly and he's rewarded you with a kiss between the eyes. but he repeats it when his manhood strokes your petals, uses it to settle you like one would a horse, voice low and soft, a constant murmur used to ground you as he carves a place for himself, kissing away the tears that come when the tight pinch finally gives.

it's a litany, his own hymn to counter the prayer he pulls from you. he's gentle, despite the way his chest heaves. you're reminded of how he trains sometimes, alone and shirtless in the yard. he laughs when you yank at his tunic, and nods, sitting up enough to pull it over his head in one fluid motion. when he settles, he's lower, face level with your chest. it allows him to sit deeper within you, fill you properly, as he said. his promises finally peter out when he draws your first breathy gasp, different now from the pained noises you'd been letting slip. his hand follows yours when it flutters from his hip, falls to that achy spot.

"still hurt, malýshka?" he looks just as hungry as you, just as consumed. when words fail you, he drags his hand up your chest and splits the panels of your chemise, exposing your chest as best he can despite your sling and groans when he finds your nipples pebbled.

first one, then the other, he inspects each breast with roughened hands, wide palms molding over them, fingers pinching until you whine. he soothes the ache with his rough tongue, lowering his head until he can pull the closest breast into his mouth, jaw hinged wide as if he wished to swallow you whole. his mouth is hot, wet. he suckles, drawing tenderness to the surface which he extorts with teeth and tongue, an alternating attack with no rhythm and no way to prepare yourself. you'd never known your chest could feel like this. you'd never known you could feel like this, hot all over yet shivering as if spring had receded, ebbed until the frozen tundra of winter battered the keep walls. chasing the feeling, you try to mimic his movement, rocking your hips down against his own and snaking your good hand up your chest, managing to worm your fingers under your sling before he snags your wrist and scolds you.

"can't have you hurting yourself more, radnaja. have to be careful."

"but i -?"

"i know. feels good, hm? but it will feel better here," he assures, dragging your hand back down, low - lower, until your fingers frame that pearl of flesh he'd found before. "remember how papa did it? show me what you've learned."

not much, it seems. you're uncoordinated, sloppy, too overwhelmed to find a proper rhythm. it's more intense with him inside you, causes you to flinch away from your own touch. you get distracted, too, reach past your pearl to spread your petals and frame where he's speared you. your fingers come away sticky and slick and you seize around him when you find blood.

you're not sure where it comes from. some long dead instinct, unearthed by fear and the novelty of his comforting presence. you call him papochka in a quavering voice and he makes a sound like he's wounded, reaching blindly for your hand to lick off the blood between broken fragments of sentences, odd threads of your combined languages twining into some semblance of a blanket he uses to soothe you. you think you hear something about your gift, that it just means you've been good for him. you don't catch much beyond that, thoughts whiting out as his own fingers return to your core. there's no flinching away from him.

he's not as cruel this time, lets you wind down without any interruption beyond the way he hikes back up your frame, cock slipping free so he can press open mouth kisses to your cheek. he's still talking, grasp of english steadier now. just needed papa to do it. can't even do it yourself, can you? papochka's got you, don't worry.

but he moves despite his words, letting your leg slip from the cradle of his elbow as he gets his knees under himself and straddles your sore leg. he's careful not to put any weight on it, instead leaning on the back of your other thigh until it folds back up toward your side, same as before.

"is this good, milaya? does it hurt?"

you shake your head adamantly. "no, papa. i'm fine."

he calls you a good girl, but you whine anyway when he tells you you're going to give him one more. he hushes you even as he pushes back in, his head falling back with a groan as this new position finally allows him to sink all the way to the root, and you know instantly why this last turn was necessary, that tight knot in your belly winding impossibly tighter.

as if he knows too, his palm splays over your belly again, fingers digging into your soft flesh. "gonna fill you up, printsessa. just like you wanted. ready?"

the term leaves you breathless, not having heard it since you were little, perched on his knee. technically, you don't know what it means, but it's similar enough to your own language that you don't need his translation, and it leaves you feeling just as spoiled and loved as it always has. you nod, and nearly get shuttled up the bed with how hard he thrusts into you. he murmurs something you don't catch, hand wrapping around your leg to keep you in place. when he begins to move again, it's much slower, a deep grind that has your jaw working uselessly.

papa groans. "not even going to fucking need it, am i? feels that good?"

you don't really know what he's asking, just bob your head along as his thrusts rock you minutely.

"use your words, malýshka."

and you would, if you were capable of them, but he's not fighting fair, making you desperate with shallow little grinds, keeping that word locked back up behind his sharp teeth. hair has fallen into his face, loose strands which cling to his temples and hang over his eyes. it does not obscure the hunger there.

"yes, papochka."

it's not clear how he manages to keep himself restrained. not when he growls like an animal, grips your thigh with bruising force. but his thrusts are languid, deep, and his other hand is gentle when it cradles the base of your skull, thumb keeping your jaw tilted high so he can see how your throat works hard for each breath. he complicates the process further by leaning over you, slotting his lips with yours so he can swallow each noise he pulls, licking along your teeth with enough force you're worried you taste blood.

or maybe it's just the remnants of your gift.

no man would want you now, not even if your father managed to pull together a decent dowry. you'd be stuck with him forever, stuck in this dilapidated keep while he -.

he must feel the panic in your pulse. "promise, printsessa."

this time it works, the knot wrapping so tight it snaps, a taut chain that lets you fall when it gives, leaves you to clatter to the ground, stiff and fragile, until your father scoops up the pieces, collects you in strong arms as he finishes, fills you up just like he promised, buried so deep inside that you know you'll always feel it.

it's then you find he burns, too, his seed so hot within you that you imagine it would sear if not for how tempered you are to your own fire. you gutter out together, the bellows of his breaths too strong to keep you kindling. it's sweltering beneath him, the sweat of his back steaming in the crisp morning air. he kisses you when he's caught his breath, heedless of the fact you hadn't yet. your protests get swallowed up, same as the unadlylike grunt you emit when he slips out. he pulls away at that, seemingly just to laugh at the displeased look on your face when, for one mortifying moment, you think you've started your moonblood and you scramble to see.

a wide palm on your good shoulder stops you, keeps you in place. "you're okay, printsessa. i've got it. stay put."

his joints creak when he climbs from the bed and you're distracted from the shock of cold air by the vision he makes, all heavy muscles and dark, wiry hair. he'd brought home a bear skin once, many years ago. it still warmed your bed upstairs, though you liked this bear better. this bed.

when he returns, papa wipes a cold, wet cloth over your woman's place, coos when you jolt in discomfort. he places a kiss there when he's done and scolds you for trying to squirm away. as if you're the improper one.

you get tucked up next to him again once he's decided you're clean enough and you luxuriate in his embrace for as long as he allows, too afraid to ask any of the questions running through your head lest he get annoyed, change his mind, decide he needs to leave right then, actually, or -.

he kisses the crown of your head. heavy, lingering. you feel his lips move against your scalp when he speaks. "i'm expecting to be rewarded with a better keep soon. further south."

worry sinks like a stone to the pit of your stomach, tears a hole through the bottom, creates an endless chasm in your bowels you will never fill, not even if you lived to the end of time. papa does his best to soothe the worry by tilting your chin up, kissing you softly on the lips. he retreats to peer at you when he finds you lifeless and stiff in his arms and sighs heavily, almost fondly.

"you'll be coming with me, radnaja."

"really!?" you're not sure you've ever heard your voice so elated, a childishness to your tone that leaves you embarrassed, cheeks heated.

papa only laughs. "promised, didn't i?"

"well, yes, but -."

"you'll be my little printsessa, my proper lady. moya zhena, my wife. would you like that?"

there's no helping the way your eyes widen in wonder. "your wife? how?"

"it's not unusual for a man to take a wife while off fighting. a matter of honor, if she's got a little malýshka of her own." his hand finds your belly again, rubs proprietarily heavy circles there. "no one need know where i found you, only that it did. and it would be an easy ruse, what with your broken russian."

ordinarily, the thought of having disappointed him with your foreign language would make you flinch, but you're too caught up in the picture he paints, the pair of you dressed in modest finery as he leads you around some pretty new home, you dangling from his arm. "but what of me? your daughter? surly people will wonder?"

he just tuts, faux serious. "well you can imagine my heartache, returning to an empty home. that shallow grave out in the east pasture. no wonder the baba fled, probably thought i'd blame her for my daughter's death. a widower, no children. who could blame me for finding a pretty little thing to take south with me?"

divider by @/adornedwithlight

[callme-holly]

OKAY OKAY, HEAR ME OUT....

Darry x wife reader where they have a son, and he really really wants to be just like his dad and play football and is low-key a terror to his mom...

𝐝𝐚𝐝!𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐧]

𝐚/𝐧 : y'all wanted more dad!darry and im delivering. i was hoping to get a bunch posted but i feel like shit and ive been crazy busy

The second your son was born, you knew he’d be just like Darry, and he’d be an absolute nightmare.

Darry is so incredibly proud of his boy and with each passing day, you could spot more and more similarities between them 

As soon as he can walk, your son is toddling around after Darry everywhere he goes. This kiddo is obsessed. 

When he’s old enough, Darry would start teaching your son about football, and soon it becomes a routine for them to sit on the couch together after Darry comes home from work and watch the games together

Your son looks up to Darry like he’s some type of idol. He always says that when he grows up, he wants to be just kike his dad, and you can’t even be upset about it bc its so damn cute

The gang teases you all the time for it because having to deal with one Curtis boy is enough, but two? Chaos.

These boys are always playing football in the yard together. I’m talking 24/7. Whether its raining, windy, or sunny. They don’t care. It becomes a problem for you, however, when you’re the one who has to wash muddy clothes and makes sure they stay off the couches and go take showers. 

Your son copies everything Darry does, from the way he drinks his coffee and reads the paper in the morning (except he swaps it out for milk and a comic), right down to the way he walks around the house with his hands on his hips. 

Both Darry and your son are fiercely protective of you, and when he’s older, your boy will fight for your honour if it’s the last thing he does. If anyone makes even the smallest comment about you, he’ll glare at them, puffing out his chest whilst delivering the sassiest comment a kid can come out with.

Sometimes when Darry is working late, your son will help you “cook” dinner the same way his dad taught him. It more often than not ends with him covered in ingredients, and you do most of the work, but he gets 50% of the credit regardless.

At bedtime, Darry will sit and read to your son until he falls asleep. Sometimes he tells stories from high school or about the gang, and your son hangs onto every single word, thinking they’re the coolest stories ever. 

The teen years are when things get crazy

Your baby boy has a growth spurt out of nowhere and it isn’t long before he’s the spitting image of his dad: broad shoulders, serious expression, and slowly growing taller than you 

Arguments happen a little more often. Their personalities are so similar that they tend to clash and butt heads, leading to you having to bring everyone back down to earth. They end up making up eventually, whether thats through talking it out or soft teasing until the other laughs.