Chapter 1: Prologue: Like a reckoning you never saw coming, I'm the Reaper outside your door.
Summary:
You know what they say about best laid plans. Mix that with an operative with deep traumas, still trying to figure her identity... Make sure you have a plan B.
Notes:
Title of the prologue is from the song The Reckoning by Halestorm.
Chapter Text
Prologue: Like a reckoning you never saw coming, I'm the Reaper outside your door.
Once Dreykov was dead, once the Red Room was gone, things would be different.
That's what Natasha was telling herself again and again.
Once he was gone, she would be free—whatever that meant. She just had to kill him. Easy.
(Not so easy.)
She had killed so many people in her life that she had long since lost count. What was one more? What was a few collateral damages? What difference did it make?
(It didn't.)
(Didn't it?)
Her life was Death. When she closed her eyes all she could see was red. She was covered in so much blood it seeped into her pores, all the way through to her bone marrow. Everywhere she went she walked on crushed bones, splattered brain matter and putrid entrails. The ground beneath her feet was charred black and soaked with gore. The earth in her wake was barren and salted with tears.
There she stood, in the middle of the charnel ground that her life had become.
(She was marble. Marble didn't bleed. Marble stood strong.)
She wanted to throw up. She had long trained herself out of those physical reactions, made herself indifferent to death and carnage. And yet...
There wouldn't even be blood, she chastised herself. At least none she would see. The building would explode and burn, and Dreykov with it.
She actually was disappointed that she wouldn't see his face, the realisation hitting him, when Death would come to claim his soul. She wanted to watch and see life leaving his body. She could imagine the dark satisfaction she would feel at the sight.
All these years, all the pain he inflicted on her, all the pain he ordered her to inflict on others, all he took from her, again and again, called for revenge.
(He took so much that she was left hollowed and empty.)
She could never get back what he robbed from her—her childhood, her choices, her body—but she could take his life. She could take back the control for the years she had left to live.
Once Dreykov was dead, things would be different.
(Would they?)
Soon, the building would explode and burn, and Dreykov with it.
She just had to give the go ahead to Barton.
She just had to make sure Dreykov was in there.
Easy.
Not that easy. He was paranoid to the point his location was near impossible to confirm. He lived in the shadows, but Natasha was well acquainted with shadows. She had lived among them her whole life—save for three sunny years that felt like a dream.
(And ended like a nightmare.)
She had found his weekness, the guiding light that would reveal his presence. His daughter.
Soon, Dreykov would burn and his little girl with him.
Just a collateral damage. A necessary one. A tactical choice, really. A mean to an end.
It wasn't different than what she had done before.
(Was it?)
Soon, the building would explode and burn, and Dreykov and his daughter with it.
Soon.
(Too soon. Not soon enough.)
A car stopped in front of the building and a girl got out of it. A frail, little thing with long black hair and wearing a school uniform. There was nothing particular about her, she looked like any other schoolgirl her age.
She didn't look like the daughter of a monster.
She looked untouched by evil, unlike Natasha at that age. She looked like a blonde little girl, so full of life, once upon a time in Ohio.
(So innocent.)
The girl turned her head toward Natasha's car. Green eyes met green eyes.
In an instant, Natasha was out of the vehicle, marching toward her mark's daughter.
Chapter 2: Chapter 1: But in my dreams I believe we're not these terrible things.
Summary:
Time for a new plan.
Notes:
What is this? Two updates (one here, one on 'A Kiss') in one day? Is this Christmas? Anyway, hope you'll enjoy it!
(Title from: Terrible Things - Halestorm)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Barton's voice was buzzing insistantly in her ear, as she returned to her car with the girl's hand firmly clasped in hers.
She ignored it, settling the child on the backseat while spouting reassuring nonsense in Russian and Hungarian.
It had been surprisingly easy, stealing the girl. The lies had rolled smoothly off her tongue—building compromised, girl needed to be led to a secure location—and the chauffeur had let them go without protest. Natasha knew all the right code words, of course. She was just like any other Widow.
(Except she wasn't.)
The girl had been too trusting, going with this stranger, following along obediently, putting her little hand in Natasha's.
Once behind the wheel, Natasha didn't lose a second threading into the Budapesti traffic.
"Natasha, dammit! What's going on?"
Right, she still hadn't replied.
"Change of plan, Barton."
Natasha willed her mind to slow down and think. New plan. She had to figure out a new plan, or Barton would have her head.
"Meet me at the safe house. Call Coulson and tell him to send–" she scrolled through her short mental list of SHIELD agents, "–Agent May. Stay sharp, they might be looking for us. I'm, uh, bringing a stollen cargo."
Barton groaned.
"The fuck, Romanoff? Whatever. You better have a new plan or Fury's gonna have our heads."
Or lock her in a tiny cell for the rest of her life, most likely. Thankfully, she wasn't a quitter and she had an idea.
"We're going to lure him out."
Barton's whistled. It did seem ambitious after all the Intel gathering and mission planning they've been doing those past few months.
"How we gonna do that?"
She looked at the girl's reflection in the rear-view mirror.
"I have something he's going to want back."
*
The safe house was empty and nothing looked disturbed or out of place when she stepped inside, the girl in tow. Barton was checking the perimeter and kept her updated through the comms at regular intervals; he had called Coulson and passed her request. Their usually unflappable handler wasn't happy about the turn of event, according to Barton.
That left her, for the time being, alone with the daughter of the man she was planning to kill.
Well, she had been in more awkward situations in the past, hadn't she?
Natasha had been trained as a spy to handle any situation, however unexpected, and to mold herself into any kind of persona needed for the mission. She never had to handle a child and play the motherly type before, though. She was more used to put on a sultry smile, or a demure one, than fake gentle, caring warmth. Still, she kept smiling in a way she hoped that made the girl feel safe.
She realised belatedly that she couldn't keep referring to the child as 'the girl' if she wanted to make her feel confortable. She had to humanize her and for that, she had to use her name.
(Names are currency, Madame B. would say. Names are identity, symbol of personhood, Barton had told her, when she had been filing her personal informations at HR.)
"Your name is Antonia, yes?" she asked in Russian. Of course she already knew, she had gathered the intel herself.
"Yes! Antonia Antonovna! What's your name?"
"Natalia Alianovna. You can call me Natasha."
"Really? You can call me Tonya—though no-one ever does."
There was a resigned sadness, a woeful acceptance, in the last part of her sentence, a sentiment she didn't mean to let out if the way she bit her lower lip was any indication. That caught Natasha off guard in a way she couldn't put into words.
"Not anyone? Not even– not even your father?"
Tonya shook her head.
"But he calls you other diminutives, right?"
She shook her head again and shrugged.
Even Melina and Alexei had sweet nicknames for her, even though everything was a lie.
(They lied so well she let herself believe it after a while. So weak.)
"What about your friends?"
"Father tells me to be proud of my name and that I shouldn't debase it by shortening it."
That one sentence told Natasha that Tonya wasn't loved. Anton Dreykov saw his daughter as an extention of himself, making her name his brand on her for the world to see. Tonya was just like the Widows, a tool in the shape of a girl, to be used at his convenience. A thing, a property.
Really, she shouldn't be surprised.
(Yet, somehow she was.)
"It's your name, you have the right to shorten it if you want to. I'll call you Tonya if that's what you prefer to be called. I think it's cute."
The smile gracing Tonya's mouth then could have powered a whole city. When Natasha smiled back, she didn't have to fake it.
*
Natasha knew she had caught Barton off-guard when he had arrived at the safe house. It wasn't the fact there was a little girl sitting in the kitchen, that much he had certainly gathered through the comms. No, it probably was the way he had found his colleague and said little girl, both giggling through a too big piece of stale cherry rétes stuffed in their respective mouths.
"Didn't expect to come home to a tea party," he quipped, once she had joined him in the living room to talk privately.
His eyes were searching and cautious.
"Dreykov's daughter, Antonia. Tonya," she explained.
"What happened to the plan?"
"She was the plan. Where she was, so was her father."
She saw the moment he understood what she meant. His eyes darted back and forth between Natasha and Tonya, before settling back on the Widow. "Shit."
"We ate the last cherry téres. Sorry," she told him, just to fill the silence that laid like an open wound between them.
"We'll have to buy more when we'll go out. So, what's the new plan?"
"What's May's ETA?"
"Fifty minutes. You're lucky Coulson went with it without knowing any details. What do we need her for?"
Natasha nodded toward Tonya.
"Babysitting? May sure gonna love that."
She shrugged. She didn't care either way if May minded or not as long as she did the job—and from what Natasha knew of the other agent, she would.
Natasha had a quiet respect for the other woman. Not many people could match her skills but May managed to keep up quite easily. And—somehow—she had become one of the best specialists in SHIELD's history while keeping her warm heart intact. That was the feat Natasha had the most admiration for, if she was being honnest. The Widow's heart had long been cauterized.
That was part of the design. Feelings, attachments, they were all distractions from the work that needed to be done. Morality was just an impediment in any mission—a frivolous notion reserved for people that thought themselves superior to the crowd and had the luxury to abide by those made-up rules.
That was part of the design—cutting out your own heart for the sake of efficiency.
(And also for the sake of a semblance of mental stability. If one didn't feel, didn't care about anything, one couldn't hurt.)
(Pain only makes you stronger, though.)
That was part of the design, yet she wished she could be different. Normal. Human. The hole where her heart should be hurt like a phantom limb, its absence a seering pain where there should only be warmth.
Yet somehow, she sometimes had spurts of feelings that showed through her actions: escaping the Red Room, giving an opening for Barton to shoot her the day of their meeting in Kyiv, sparing Tonya's life this very day.
Why had she done all those things if she was as unfeeling as she said? What was making her so different from the other Widows that obeyed without a word? How could she have broken free from Dreykov's control when none of the other did?
Was it something deep inside her? A flaw in the Red Room work on her? Was it Ohio?
(Yelena?)
Back then, they had already been carving her heart out of her chest. The years of training before the mission had rendered unable to demonstrate her care for Yelena the way she wished she had, while she hadn't had the skills to fake it the way Melina did.
(Was it fake? All of it?)
Oh, how she wished things had been different. Real. Maybe if they hadn't left Ohio, she could have grown her heart back. But it was futile wishing for things that could not have been.
Still, she wished there was still a piece of her torn heart left. Maybe her soul wasn't as disfigured as she thought it was if she was still capable of empathy with a 8-years-old?
Agent May would keep Tonya safe while Barton and Natasha would be assassinating the girl's father. Was it really empathy? Most people would call it twisted and vile. Yet some would call it justice for all Dreykov had ever done was hurt little girls.
Would Tonya be better off an orphan?
Morality was a treacherous sea to navigate. How did May, Barton, all those agents, managed to achieve missions's objectives while keeping sane? Natasha was experiencing feelings for two minutes and she already felt like her head was about to explode.
She had to refocus on the mission. Kill Dreykov. Destroy the Red Room. Simple.
First step first. They had to put Tonya in a safe place.
Then the real work would begin.
Notes:
I have a rule, as a writer: never using Google translate. So that means I only write in a language I'm somewhat fluent. (My fluency when it comes to English can be argued, I'll admit.) So you'll never see any language other than English, French and maybe some Spanish. This is why, even if the characters both speak Russian, the conversation between Nat and Tonya is written in English.
Chapter 3: Chapter 2: You are the maker of what I've become. So, say hello to the monster that you made.
Summary:
Some bonding time and some mission planning.
Notes:
Chapter title from Heart of Novocaine by Halestorm
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Natasha Romanoff was a puzzle Clint had been trying to decipher since day one. Each time he thought he was close to figuring her out, she threw him off.
She was an exceptional actress, that was one of the many reasons she was such a talented spy. He never knew what was fake and what was genuine. Now seeing her so soft around this little girl, looking genuinely nurturing, made him doubt once again what was her true face.
Around him, and at work in general, she wore a blank mask devoid of any emotion; it made her look like a unfeeling robot. Sometimes there was a hint of humor or sarcasm here and there that made her look human, but mostly she was cold. Or, rather, empty.
Was Tonya awakening a buried part of Natasha? The redhead must have been an innocent child at some point, could there be some part of her still buried deep, laying dormant until another child brought her back to life? After all, he knew all too well himself what a turbulent childhood could do to someone, just like he had experienced first hand the return to life of that joyous inner child at the contact of his own kids.
All too often he was looking for that spark of humanity in his new partner. Was she beyond saving? People had told him before he was a fool for hoping the best in people; too often had he been disappointed after misplacing his careful trust. But what few people understood about him was that gamble was what he needed to stay human himself. He was walking the edge of disillusion dayly, too close to losing hope in humanity as a whole. He was hanging on any last shred he could grab on. So, what if that made him a fool in other people's eyes?
Hence, day after day, when he met Natasha for another day of work, he gave her a chance, just like on that roof in Kyiv when he didn't take the shot. Maybe he saw too much of himself in her. Maybe he was too soft. He couldn't be any other way.
Time would tell whether it was a mistake or not.
*
Natasha relaxed her hand, careful not to hold Tonya's too tightly. She couldn't make the girl anxious and let her think that something might be wrong. She led her down the stairs, aware of any minute details in their environment.
Barton was getting out the building by the back entrance to watch their backs while Natasha and Tonya would go to the car. The sharpshooter would join them a block away and they would go together to the rendez-vous point with May.
On their way down, they were stopped by one of the tenants, Agnieszka. Natasha knew her well, having befriended the older woman. Old ladies, as the Widow knew, made good informants, as they had the habit to trump boredom with gossip. Also, a network of old grannies should never be underestimated.
"Natalia!" called the Polish grandma. "Good to see you today! I haven't seen you yesterday, you must have been busy."
"Yes, some family business to take care of. How are you today, Pani Aga?"
They might be on a schedule, but it was always a good idea to check for the newest gossip. You never knew what you could learn.
"Oh my joints are popping like no-one's business, just like any other day." Aga chuckled before shifting her attention to Tonya. "Oh, and who's this little one?"
"This is my niece, Tonya."
"Yes, I can see the family ressemblance! Nice to meet you, little lady!"
"Nice to meet you madame."
"Oh, she's so polite! Oh, I've just made some makowiec, I'll get you some!"
As the old woman hurriedly disappeared inside her apartment, the girl looked conflicted.
"Are you really my aunt?" she asked, her voice thankfully barely above a whisper.
Natasha hesitated.
Any lies would roll off her tongue with ease. She could find an explanation. The problem was, did she really want to lie?
Ohio came back to mind, how Melina and Alexei pretended to be their real parents. Natasha knew the truth, but Yelena...
Did she want to do the same to Tonya?
She was saved from answering by the return of Agnieszka.
"I'll explain later," Natasha murmured to the girl.
"Here's your cake, little one." Aga handed the dessert wrapped in aluminium foil to Tonya. By the look of it, she was giving them the whole thing. "I make makowiec all year round because it's my daughter's favorite. I have always some ready for when she comes to visit."
Natasha knew that Aga's daughter had never visited. The poor woman hadn't seen her child since she'd been widowed twenty years earlier. She was left alone, in a country she had emigrated to to follow a man she had loved but hadn't been accepted by her family, where her only child had abandoned her in turn. Life was cruel this way, Natasha knew it all too well herself.
She looked down at the girl still holding her hand; Tonya would learn soon the harshness of life. She would be soon orphaned by the very hand that was holding hers. Natasha couldn't see any other way, she couldn't stop in her track now. Dreykov had to die.
What did that say about Natasha, that she couldn't stop herself from seeking revenge for an innocent child's sake?
She couldn't afford letting her thoughts stray like this on a mission. She had to refocus.
"So, nothing new in the neighbourhood, Pani Aga?" Natasha enquired.
(Good, checking if the informant had intel was good.)
"Oh, you should not leave this little one out of your sight. My friend Ana called, oh, maybe ten minutes ago, told me there was a child lost not far from here. They're looking for her everywhere!"
The fact they were already looking for Tonya wasn't a surprise, but that they were so openly looking for her was bad news. At least they were not talking about a kidnapping, which would have been problematic.
"I'll be careful, Aga." Natasha assured the old woman. Making a show of looking at her wristwatch, she added apologetically: "We need to get going though, we're meeting with my sister. Have a good day. And thanks again for the cake!"
"You be well Natalia! You too Tonya!"
*
Sometimes, the apple would fall far from the tree. That was the thought circling in Clint's head as he got to know Tonya.
He had joined Natasha and the girl in the car a block down the apartment building as planned and settled on the backseat with Tonya so that if something went wrong he could grab her quickly and get out just as fast.
Natasha, behind the wheel, was glancing at them from time to time in the rear-view mirror, a soft smile gracing her lips at her partner's antics.
Clint was showing all the circus tricks he remembered to amuse and distract the girl which was delighted by the performance. When hearing this innocent girl giggling, it was hard to tell her father was a monster trafficking and abusing little girls to turn them into spies and heartless killers.
Yeah, sometimes the good apple would fall really far from the rotten tree.
*
Twenty minutes into the trip, Tonya asked if she could have some cake.
The way the girl bit her bottom lip as if she was regretting asking already reminded Natasha of her own childhood, when asking for food would get her a beating. Did Dreykov do the same to his daughter?
(A Widow was marble. A Widow stood strong even in hunger.)
"Sure," Clint agreed. "It looks yummy. Can I have some too?"
"Of course!"
"Okay, let me find my knife..."
Natasha handed him her own knife readily. He looked at the profered item with suspicion and a hint of disgust.
"It's clean," she assured him, smiling impishly. "It's brand new actually. I haven't used it for anything yet." Anything meant stabbing someone or slitting a throat. She hadn't even cleaned her fingernails with it.
"Okay," was all he said, yet he wiped the blade on his pant leg before cutting the makowiec. He handed a piece to Tonya before offering one to Natasha. The spy accepted and took a bite of the rolled goodness. Agnieszka certainly was a great baker.
(So was Melina, back in Ohio. Her red velvet cake was Natasha's madeleine de Proust.)
By the end of the trip, half of the makowiec had been eaten and the conversation had devolved into a language contest. Natasha was winning, of course. Tonya was perfectly fluent in Russian, Hungarian and French, had a good grasp on German and knew a few English words and phrases. And Clint... Clint was clowning around.
He was purposely mixing vocabulary from different languages, making ridiculous accents and his rendition of a French man was, admittedly, hilarious.
(When was the last time Natasha had let out an honnest laugh?)
As they arrived at the rendez-vous point, he made a bow with flourish. "Merci ! Merci ! Vous êtes un public formidable ! Danke ! Hvala !" (*)
If Natasha had doubts before about the story of a young Clint joining the circus, she was certainly convinced at this point.
*
They looked like a normal family, was the first thing that came to mind when Melinda May saw the three of them approaching.
Except she knew they weren't. She had no idea where that girl came from, and that worried her. What the hell were Barton and Romanoff up to with this kid?
And then it downed on Melinda that she was here to take care of the girl. A heads-up would have been nice.
"Hey May," Barton saluted her, the asshole. She raised a single threatening eyebrow. He had the grace to look apologetic, rubbing the back of his neck.
Romanoff didn't care about Melinda's mood and just went and introduced the girl in Russian.
"This is Tonya. Tonya, this is our friend Melinda. You gonna stay with her for a little while. Clint and I need to run some errands."
May abandoned the Ice Queen act and a large, friendly smile split her face. "Hi. Nice to meet you Tonya," she told the girl, in the same tongue. "I'm sorry if my Russian isn't perfect. I speak other languages if you'd prefer."
"I think you speak perfectly fine, miss."
"Thank you. You can call me Melinda if you want."
"Okay, Melinda."
"I'm sure we're going to be fast friend." The she gestured toward the inside of the jet. "Have you ever been inside of a quinnjet before?" Tonya shook her head. "Natasha, can you give her a tour while I have a little chat with Clint?"
"Sure. Come, Tonya." Barton gave his partner an anxious look as the girls went inside.
"So," switching back to English, May crossed her arms and levelled the other agent with her best pissed-off glare.
Barton swallowed. "So."
"What I am supposed to do with that child?"
"Keep her safe?"
"You don't seem sure."
"Oh come on, May, stop acting so gruff. We both know you're a teddy bear."
She didn't dignify him with a reply.
"Okay. She's Dreykov's kid. You need to keep her out of here while we, you know, do our thing."
Did they just kidnap their mark's kid? Yes, they did. They fucking did. Coulson and Fury would be livid once they heard about it.
"Anything I'm supposed to know? If they come after me I should be prepared."
"We found her tracker and disabled it for now. We going to reactivate it latter elsewhere to make a diversion. You just have to keep Tonya off the radar."
"What about the mother? Other relatives?"
"Mother's unknown as far as we know. All other relatives are dead or imprisoned. The Red Room is the only threat."
"Okay. One last question. Why me?"
"You'll have to ask Natasha. She specifically asked for you."
He gazed past her toward the two Russian girls inside the jet, and May's eyes followed the direction of his attention.
May didn't know Romanoff that well. Melinda had been one of the agents tasked with evaluating her skill set, but the Russian spy was closed off and only spoke when needed. Mostly she was efficient but not friendly, not if she didn't need to be, and clearly she didn't see the point of making friend with her colleagues. She was there to do her job and that was it.
Well, at least that was what it appeared to be at first sight.
What Hill and Coulson had shared with May about Natasha painted another story, however. They didn't tell much, but it was enough to see the Russian girl under a different light. Beyond the shell of master spy and cold-blooded killer, there was a traumatised girl yearning for a different life. She was more than the monstrous acts depicted in her file.
Human beings were complex creatures, and May knew in her guts Romanoff was human, in all its complicated and sometimes terrible ways.
That didn't tell May exactly who Romanoff was; she even doubted the Widow knew herself. It would take time for her to figure out her identity after a life spent switching faces more often that shirts.
Experience was the best teacher. Eventually she would get there.
None of this told May why she had been chosen specifically for this mission though. Any field agent with a pilot's licence was good enough to transport Dreykov's daughter to a secure location, and there was many that had been closer than May. What was she missing there?
Sure, Dreykov was a high-profile target and this mission had high stakes for Romanoff. After all I would decide her fate and future. But there were other agents just as competent as May. What made her the best suited agent in Romanoff's eyes?
As she observed the interaction between the Widow and her mark's daughter, she wondered: did Romanoff asked for May because she wanted an agent that could make Tonya comfortable? Was this girl's well-being the only reason?
May had to accept she probably wouldn't know until she could ask the Widow.
She turned back to Barton.
"Well, I guess I'm going to have to figure out how to entertain this kid until you're done."
"I know you're not much of a talker," he remarked, "but don't worry about running out of topic of conversation. Once Tonya is relaxed enough, she'll talk for two."
May certainly hoped so.
*
Once Tonya safely with May, Natasha and Clint went back to work. They had an assassination to plan.
A trap was devised over more rétes. (They both had a sweet tooth apparently.) The perfect location for the meeting was chosen and scouted out. A few diversions were set up.
Then they had to contact Dreykov to arrange the meeting. They paid a kid to deliver a package containing a note and a burner phone to the security agent at the door of the Red Room building.
After that they waited for Dreykov to call.
Natasha sat silent and eerily still the entire time it took for the phone to start to ring. The tension in every lines of her body was painful to watch. Thankfully, Clint's sniper training allowed him the same calm, patience and stillness, otherwise he wouldn't have resisted twitching the entire time.
At the first ring, Natasha took a breath, held it for a few second, and reached for the phone. Waited a few more seconds. Finally picked up the call.
He couldn't hear the other side but he knew she wasn't the first to talk. If the twitching muscle in her jaw was any indication, she was allowing him some time to taunt, to get control. Then, when she started talking, she went to the point.
Clint had been wondering what her play would be, what she would ask in exchange of his daughter.
"I want my sister," she said. "Yelena in exchange of Antonia."
He wasn't expecting that.
*
Natasha wasn't one to let nerves get the best of her, but that day she felt unusually jittery as she was waiting for Dreykov to arrive. Hiding in the shadows of the colonnade of the courtyard where the exchange was supposed to happen, she was obsessively scanning the place.
She was almost regretting not blowing the building earlier. It would have been so much easier than facing the man who made a monster out of her.
It'd better be worth it.
"Breath, Natasha," Barton told her through the comms.
If he could tell how stressed out she was from that far, she was really out of her game. Thankfully, she didn't have to wait for long. A black car and a grey van entered the courtyard, bracketted by two motorcycles.
Natasha left the shelter of the darkened colonnade and was met by the man plaguing every single one of her nightmares.
"Hello, child."
The game was on.
Notes:
(*) [Translation. In French: Thank you! Thank you! You're an amazing audience! In German: Thank you! In Slovenian/Bosnian/Serbian/Croatian: Thank you!]
justa__person on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Mar 2025 09:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
Loar on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Jun 2025 04:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
fadeintoyou19 on Chapter 1 Sun 16 Mar 2025 08:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
Loar on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Jun 2025 04:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
elephe2 on Chapter 1 Thu 29 May 2025 06:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Loar on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Jun 2025 04:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
firlalaith on Chapter 1 Thu 16 Oct 2025 06:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
elephe2 on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Jun 2025 06:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
BlueDancer9000 on Chapter 2 Fri 06 Jun 2025 11:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
Bolo_from_Aeor on Chapter 2 Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
firlalaith on Chapter 2 Fri 17 Oct 2025 01:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ohuno on Chapter 3 Sat 27 Sep 2025 08:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
firlalaith on Chapter 3 Sun 19 Oct 2025 12:53PM UTC
Comment Actions