I’m not like them. I was born here— in Niflheim. All this time and I’ve never told them. And that’s not even the worst part. I wasn’t born into a happy family. I was made— created in some laboratory. The entire reason I exist is to make Noct and all of them miserable.
When Nico di Angelo first looked him in the eyes with that miserable expression and told Will he was broken, Will could see he didn’t expect comfort. The way his body faced away from him, the way he was already curling in on himself, the way his eyes had immediately dropped away from him. Nico was expecting Will to abandon him, or something worse that Will didn’t want to think about. That’s what got him the most, that was the final blow that made Wills heart crack for this beautiful boy. Nico didn’t expect support. In his mind he wasn’t reaching out for help, he was confessing some sort of terrible secret that would make Will turn and run.
It’s almost a relief now, the way Nico tells him he feels broken sometimes. Because Will knows at least he’s not as broken as he was by the way he moves slightly toward Will so Will can pull him close. And he does, he holds Nico tightly enough that maybe, if he is broken, he can fuse all those pieces back together.
it’s officially been 3 years since ryan hawley’s first ever episode as robert sugden.
thanks to everyone at emmerdale who helped a) decide to bring robert back b) put him with aaron and make him bisexual and c) cast ryan alexander hawley
thank you ryan for your ridiculous talent, beautiful face and insane chemistry with everyone you act with (it’s highkey annoying how you’re THAT good). thank you for putting everything into your work, loving your job and being an absolute babe to to your fans
shoutout to danny b for being ryan’s pal, making him smile and making him love being part of robron even more
and finally, thanks to karl davies for not wanting to return. things would’ve been weird af and I am eternally grateful we get to see ryan on our screens in the show we all love 💞😚💘😍💖
I am someone who constantly thinks about the moment that Gosalyn Mallard imprints on her father. About the idea that she most likely came from a bad home where she’d imprinted on people who weren’t particularly kind of parental.
How she’d been thrust into a second home, imprinting on her grandfather before having him disappear.
Baby ducks traditionally imprint once. That’s it. They see someone, they latch. THere’s a connection, and they live it out through the rest of their days.
She’s lost three. Her mother (uncaring). Her father (unfeeling). Her grandfather (gone; gone too soon).
The woman at the orphanage may have even said that to Drake as he finished signing the last of the papers. Leaning in closer, patting his hand, motioning to the other room where Gosalyn sat, arguing with another child over the coolness of Darkwing Duck.
“You… you can’t expect her to attach,” Mrs. Cavanaugh whispered, as kindly as she could manage. “She’s been through quite a lot. I don’t have the files, but I’m sure she’ll tell you herself. One day.”
“I didn’t expect her…” he swallows. Because in a way, he had expected her to do that. “I won’t,” he reaffirms, trying his best to keep sadness at bay. Is that what that was? Sadness? He shook it back and initialed besides his social security number. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh nodded. “Thank you for understanding. The chances of her imprinting again- it’s rare to see a duckling her age do it more than once. I’m not sure a fourth-”
“It’s fine,” he cut her off, not sure if he could hear more.
This was to be his daughter. He wouldn’t get angry over her inability to form some sort of inseparable thing that he thought would come as quickly as he wanted. She’d been through enough, and having pressure from him over something silly like that wouldn’t help her in the slightest. So he sucked it up and finished signing.
He doesn’t expect it.
But neither does she.
She’ll be staring at her ceiling on a Sunday night, dreading school the next day, when she heard her father from outside the door. Shuffling around, she could hear the sounds of folding laundry. The little shhp as he placed one of her shirts on top of a pile. The smell of those pancakes she loved was finding its way up the stairs. He always made them at night and froze them. A quicker way to get her out the door, since she seemed to take all the time in the world if only it meant holding off of school for a few seconds more.
Her posters on the wall, her baseball alarm clock, the chest of costumes, the wall of her favorite comic books. All of it, stuffed into a room in a home he wouldn’t have bought had it not been for her.
He’d hung pictures of her all over the house. There was one of them on his bedside table. Another on hers. The two of them, together, in every bit of everything had and was and-
She was happy. More than happy? She was-
She might even resist it, at first. People leave. That’s what they do. That’s what they’ve been conditioned to do. To go. To put her down and turn away and walk and walk and walk while she stands behind and screams as loud as she can. Her entire existence had been built on the platform of screaming into silences until the forgotten had eaten her up whole.
She can’t do it again.
She might just stare. She might sit in the dark and the quiet. Or, more likely, she might just burst into tears. Alone. In the pitch. Until the door opens and her father is there, kneeling, asking her what’s wrong, and she can’t explain that there’s so much pure, unfiltered, raw, terrible love that she feels she might burst or die or do both if they were pulled apart. That she’s felt it before, with three other parents, and they’d all gone. That she can’t do it again, but here she is, all over, repeating some sick pattern that dooms her each time.
That she wants, more than anything, to be this. To have this.
And that the fear of losing it is greater, but the tie is stronger, and she’s knotted up so tight she can’t rightly breathe.
So instead, she says: “don’t go?”
And he says: “never.” in that voice he uses that’s part confusion, part adoration, part absolute terror.
He holds her, and she fists his sweater and presses her forehead into his chest and stays like that as long as she needs to. “Don’t go, too,” she’d whisper, and he’d kiss her head and tell her that she’s being absolutely ridiculous and come on, let’s go get something to drink.
They drink hot chocolate in the kitchen until her hiccups subside, and then he leads her back to bed, tucks her in, and turns off the light. “Love you, Gos.”
“Love you too, dad.”
“… You’re not getting off of school tomorrow.”
Oddly, Drake Mallard gets it. It wasn’t long before that he accidentally felt the invisible but all to real tie twang into place. He’d done his best to sever it. She didn’t need that. She didn’t need him to put the pressure of an imprint on her. The best parents and children had them, sure, but she’d been someone else’s child and he was getting into this whole parenting thing late, so it was silly for it to be there, and he should just ignore it.
Except he couldn’t ignore it. And he couldn’t wash it away.
And it wouldn’t be long before he’d sighed and given up.
These two are such absolute dorks. I love them both. Because at one point or another, there’s going to be the realization that she’s imprinted again. And Drake’s going to make such a deal over it with his Barista at Canard Coffee. School boy squealing over how his daughter imprinted on him.
And the Barista is going to say “uh huh” and hand him his coffee. “Yeah, but you know that’s like… normal, right?”
“Yeah! But she imprinted on me!”
“Cool. You want whip on that?”
Drake is incredibly proud of his parenting.
Side note: The Single Dads Club never hears the end of this. And by Single Dads club I do mean it’s one member. And by one member I mean Donald Duck. Who’s done this whole imprinting thing so really it’s old news.