Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., United States
Description
Fragonard is usually associated in the popular imagination with amusing and mildly erotic works, yet he was also an observant and sometimes sincere painter of family life. The Visit to the Nursery is one of his more ambitious and successful domestic scenes, a touching and evocative image of parental affection. In a rustic interior, a fashionable young couple gaze lovingly at their sleeping child, who is looked after by an elderly woman seated beside the cradle. Three other children have wandered into the room and look on attentively. A soft light spills through the parted drapes at left, illuminating the scene with an ethereal glow.
Hiii! I'm writing a story with two female characters, one is a teenager, the other is an adult, and they start of as strangers and then gradually grow closer and are like a family, so I was wondering if you could do some prompts on showing parental affection in general, like little things to show that they care about the other, or something they can say to one another. I've been struggling with writing the progress part, like, things they wouldn't do before because they weren't so close but now they are? Does that help, sorry I'm bad at explaining. The prompts can be either dialogue or scenarios. It would really help. Tysm :)
Hi :)
Your story sounds very interesting and I think I have some parental affection moments that you could include that shows how much their relationship has changed.
Parental Affection Moments
ruffling their hair
waking them up in the morning
feeling their forehead for the temperature
making them food
covering them with a blanket/tucking them in
patting their head
cheering them on when they are playing sports, etc.
Written for Bim’s birthday, in the Superhero AU this is his first real public appearance.
Summary: Bim and Anti have a night on the town, Wilford joins in.
This is chapter three of the story
<= PREVIOUS
Chapter 3: You Shoot Me in a Dream, Your Better Wake Up and Apologize
Anti was cackling as he shook his spray can and fished up the image he was working on. It was a rather crude graffiti piece of Jackieboy Man, cursing as if Jackie could hear him. It was an image of Jackie in a diaper with a glass of milk.
There was a large duffle bag of spray paint cans in between Bim and Anti.
“Hey, kid, hand me an orange,” Anti grinned, “I wanna give ‘im an afro.”
“Sure,” Bim sighed, and held out the spray can.
Anti just looked at him, he took it and looked like he wanted to say something. He even opened his mouth, but closed it quickly.
The glitch demon shook the can, smiling, “So what’d yah do to piss off yer ol’ man?”
“I brought up he who must not be named,” Bim scoffed, and grabbed a grey spray can. “I don’t get why he’s more pissed at him than you.”
“Ehh, he got less pissed at me after I gave yah ta him,” Anti dismissed, trying to cheer up the atmosphere. “He’s gotten soft since. He used ta be a menace ta e’eryone and e’erythin’ an’ it’s so annoyin’.”
Bim bit the inside of his cheek, “You were the one to get them cloned right?”
Anti shrugged, “Yeah, seemed like a funny thin’ ta do at the time. An’ yah should have seen Dark’s face when he first saw ye. It was priceless.”
“Why?” Bim looked over at him.
“Why what?” Anti started making a couple quick swipes of paint to make an afro on his drawing.
“Why’d you clone them? You had to have some kind of a good reason.” Bim kept watching him.
“Didn’t really,” Anti dropped the orange can and took the gray from Bim to start a new image. This one of Dark. “I was more focused on what would piss Dark off more. After I got those screwballs working they were a bit more concerned about the scientific advances or what they could do with Dark’s DNA, and I just wanted the first living one they had.”
“What did they do with the others?” Bim asked glumly.
“Hell if I know, Dark either killed or enlisted the doctors when he found out ye were the real deal, ask him,” Anti was making his spray paint version of Dark with giant eyes, and his tongue sticking out. “It took me five years before he e’en let me get close enough ‘ta see yah again.”
Then he held out the gray spray can, “Here, draw something about yer ol’ man, blame it on me.”
Bim smiled, taking the can, “Sounds great.”
“What are you boys doing?” Wilford announced himself.
Bim jumped, almost spraying Wilford in the face with paint. “Ahhhh!”
Wilford held his hands up, “Woah, woah, Junior, it’s just me.”
“Dad, come on, I don’t need to be babysat,” Bim groaned. “The old man said I could go out tonight.”
The crazed reporter slid over to Bim’s side, “My dear boy, Dark is our chaperone, I’m here to enjoy a night on the town with one of my pride and joys. We’re going to paint the town red.”
“Literally?” Bim smiled excitably, shaking his fists up and down like he was a kid again.
Anti let out a chuckle.
“Only if Dark doesn’t catch us,” Wilford winked.
“Where are we going first?” Bim had almost an ear-to-ear grin, Wilford had an equally wide grin on his face.
“We’ll I thought we could go mess with Google’s data banks and then grab a drink or two, what do you say?” Wilford smiled.
Bim’s gasp was audible from the street, “Can I?”
“You got your ID?” At his father’s question, Bim nodded. “Then no one can stop us. Not even Dark.”
Bim looked at Anti.
Anti scoffed, smiling, “Don’t look at me kid, I don’t babysit, I enable.”
“Let’s do this!” Bim proclaimed with a huge smile, throwing his hands up.
“That’s the spirit, Junior,” Wilford slapped Bim on the back. “Let’s go Anti, I know a nice disco place that has great martinis.”
With that, Wilford led Bim and Anti with him through a portal to go and bother Google first. Before any of them were too drunk to do anything.
They wound up getting back to Dark’s main warehouse at almost 4 AM, the two of them stumbling out of the portal with Wilford, both Bim and Wilford absolutely plastered. Anti still looked sober.
“You should ‘ere what Dar told me after that,” Wilford smiled, his crazed slur even thicker, holding onto Bim around the shoulders.
“What?” Anti smiled.
“He told me to clean my suit,” Wilford laughed
Anti and Bim laughed.
Dark stormed out of his office and just gave the three of them a dirty look.
“Why are you back so late?” Dark looked at his clock.
“Yer boys are lightweights,” Anti told Dark. “Yah should be ashamed at yersef. Wil went down after only twelve martinis.”
“If you poisoned them, I’ll turn your code into a parking meter,” Dark threatened.
“Relax, kid went easy, Wil’s just losing his touch,” Anti dismissed. “S’ probably the old age.”
Wilford peeled himself away from Bim, instead half draping himself over Dark, who rolled his eyes and groaned. “Hey, Darky,” Wil smiled, poking Dark’s cheek.
“Wil, please,” Dark tried to shove him off but Wil clung to him even tighter, almost knocking them both over. “Let go of me!”
“Why would I let go of you, you smell so nice,” Wil leaned his head against Dark’s shoulder. Anti was just grinning at them.
“This is isn’t funny,” Dark told Anti, Bim walked over and hugged Dark.
“Nah,” Anti smiled. “It’s hilarious, I’m adding it to my folder of other great moments yah’ve given me.”
“Delete them,” Dark ordered, Bim trying to move to cuddle on Dark’s chest as if he was three again.
“No,” Anti opened up a portal and backed up through it. “Have fun boys, see yah kid.”
Bim was either too drunk or too distracted to answer him, and Anti didn’t wait. The Glitch Demon escaped before Dark could pry himself free to actually threaten Anti.
“Daaaaaad,” Bim groaned, hugging Dark even tighter. “I love you.”
Dark’s groan was audible.
“I love you too,” Wil answered.
“I knnnnooow,” Bim told him. “I meant him.”
“I know you love me, Sunshine,” Dark told him, combing his hand through Bim’s hair. Damien’s blue soul supplied something he kept to himself: “you shouldn’t”.
“Darky, you’re supposed to say it too,” Wilford told him, rubbing his face into the side of Dark’s neck, his mustache tickling Dark’s neck.
“I love you too Bim,” Dark heard Bim suck in a gasp and hang onto him tighter. “Alright you two, bed.”
“Only if you come with me,” Wilford chuckled.
“You’re drunk,” Dark reminded pointedly.
“Then drink some wine, join me,” Wilford complained.
In the end it took far too long for Dark to not only get Bim in bed, Dark already setting things out for him in the morning, and then to dump Wilford in bed, who was attached to Dark like velcro and refused to let go of him.
Unsurprising to Dark, both of them woke up with awful hangovers, Bim refused to leave him room, at least Wilford recovered quickly enough to help Bim through his first hangover since Dark had kept a stranglehold on both his and Wil’s liquor cabinets around Bim and his other adopted siblings.
Dark was in his office with Logan, going through some files when Bim walked in.
“I live!” Bim shouted.
“If you could keep it down, I would appreciate that,” Dark reminded, Logan turning to look at Bim.
Bim froze and looked at Logan, rubbing at his hands and smiling, “What’s your name?”
“Don’t flirt with my staff,” Dark ordered before Logan could answer. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Then quit hiring hot guys,” Bim complained as Logan just stared at him blankly. “It’s not fair.”
“I hire individuals based on skill and the ability to keep their mouths shut,” Dark quipped. “Your infatuation with them is your problem.”
Bim bravely walked up to Logan, ignoring Dark. “So what’s your name, don’t you look like a meal?”
Dark groaned, “Who’s been teaching you that?”
Bim just smiled, “Yan.”
“You’re both grounded,” Dark decided, already grabbing his phone.
“You can’t ground me, I’m an actual adult now,” Bim bit back.
“I’m working right now,” Dark dismissed. “Go talk to Illy and Yan, we’re busy.”
“See you later, try not to mess up,” Bim winked at Logan. “Wouldn’t want you to get served on a silver platter.”
“Bim,” Dark ground his teeth. “Out.”
“Fine, killjoy,” Bim groaned and left.
Logan waited a couple beats after Bim had left and it was clear Dark wasn’t going to say anything. “Back to the matter at hand Dock 18 is receiving a new shipment.”
Orochimaru has been shunned because of his eyes. His eyes are tinged with orange and amber and gold, and it runs in his family. It’s a clan thing, but as of right now, as of today, as he watches his mother’s body being lifted into the grave, he’s the only one left in his clan, the only one left with eyes that glow in the dark and resemble those of his clan animal, the only one left who has eyes like his.
He doesn’t cry, because ninja don’t cry, but he stands there solemnly and stares at his mother’s still body in the grave.
She’s always wanted to be turned into ashes, and mixed with his father’s ashes. But that is a practice rarely done outside of their clan, and his father was only cremated because his mother had been there to do it. But Orochimaru is too young to be able to declare his desire to cremate his mother, even if his teacher is the revered Sandaime.
He thinks that maybe he will dig her out in the middle of the night and use a Katon jutsu on her, the familiar one that has been used for cremation and cremation only. His mother taught it to him when his father died, telling him that if anything happened to her, if anything happened to anyone in their clan even though after Orochimaru there was no one else, Orochimaru would be the clan head and he would be the one in charge of this. Orochimaru would have to know what to do.
Orochimaru stays at her grave even as the few people who attended her funeral leaves. He traces his finger along the carved characters of his parents’ names in the stone of the memorial, dictating their death in battle, empty indents and curvatures and markings that tell a sad story of a man who died bravely, and a woman who was driven to grief after her love died.
They are survived by a snake-child with pale skin and golden eyes and black hair, and he is alone in the world.
He goes home and reads his mother’s will, tosses it to the side and curls up on the floor in an empty room in an empty house. The futon is forgotten beside him, the will thrown haphazardly on top.
It tells him that he is now the clan head, that he has total control over the clan compound, what little of it they have, and all that he knows. He’s been groomed for it, ever since Orochimaru was born a year after his parents settled down in Konoha. He knows everything and anything that pertains to being a clan head or heir.
But then it tells him that he has a guardian who should be dropping by the moment both of his parents die to take care of Orochimaru, that this man is his godfather, that this man will help him grow and learn, and Orochimaru hates it.
It’s a blatant lie, because already there’s no one here and it’s always been the trio of them against the world and everyone else and all of a sudden a godfather is thrown into the mix.
He wakes up to food in the kitchen, food that he doesn’t recognize. There aren’t any miso soup or salmon or rice, but there is something that smells like meat and what looks like eggs, as well as a round sort of yellow sort of brown thing with a yellow lump of fat and a cup of honey next to it.
He thinks the fat looks like what his mother once called butter, but that memory is so far away that he can’t remember clearly.
“I can’t cook your kind of food just yet,” a voice says behind him, sheepish and tired, and Orochimaru immediately realizes that he’s sensed this man’s presence for a long time, heard his footsteps in the house and seen his shadows, but he’s instinctively passed him off as someone not dangerous.
That, in itself, makes the man very dangerous. Even more dangerous than his teacher or Jiraiya or Tsunade, because when Orochimaru first met them, he was instantly suspicious of them until they earned his somewhat trust.
But this man, his supposed godfather, his temporary guardian, Orochimaru trusts inexplicably. He’s only ever trusted two people like that, and they’ve been by his side since he was born and both are dead. He has to remember to dig up one of them later to burn her to ashes to keep in jar in the Hall of Memorial.
“I don’t remember you.”
The man has his face turned to the ground, feet bare and pant legs brushing the ground, fingers barely peeking out of the sleeves of his sweater and hair messy but black as night, possibly blacker than Orochimaru’s, and reaching to a quarter of his back.
The man chuckles, a smile ghosting over his face, and Orochimaru is stunned at how familiar it is. “You’re as blunt as ever, Orochi.” The man looks up, and golden eyes meet green.
His lips quirk up, and Orochimaru gets a jolt at how both the nickname and the half smirk make him remember.
“Potter,” he says, and he manages to turn it into a semblance of a scowl. “You’ve been missing for three years and you just decided to waltz back in?”
He doesn't say that he’s actually secretly relieved, but Harry seems to pick up on it anyways, and his eyes brighten. “Yes, I believe I did. Was my waltz as beautiful as ever?” He asks, eyebrow raising up and Orochimaru flushes red.
He would give anything in the world to forget that moment of embarrassment at age three where he was stupidly in awe of anything, and had almost attacked Harry in an attempt to get him to teach Orochimaru how to waltz. Orochimaru could walk up walls and run on water but his sense of balance and tempo and speed and music was atrocious, still is, but his balance is unparalleled, but at age three, he was not capable of dancing in triple time.
Even his mother struggled a bit learning the steps, and his father failed to lead Harry properly, if his memory served him correctly. Harry could dance both the female and the male roles effortlessly, but his parents stumbled in their own respective roles.
It is one of his fonder memories of them, and he smiles despite his conflicting feelings.
“You will want to cremate Youko, yes?” Harry asks, straightening and padding away. Orochimaru follows, unbidden. “I dug up her body for you. No one knows that I was there, I hope. You can cremate her with your clan jutsu.”
Orochimaru speeds up at that admission, almost stumbling in his haste to enter the cremation room.
His mother’s body is in a wooden casket, and Orochimaru does the usual ritual before he hurriedly takes in a deep breath, flicks his fingers in quick succession and blows out mouthfuls of flame.
He blows out as much fire as he can until his breath runs out, and then he keeps sucking in a new breath and repeating.
It’s respect, keeping the casket burning until there is no doubt that the entire thing has been reduced to ashes. It’s honor, letting them burn with the sparks and embers that ring of their golden eyes and red lips. It’s love, wishing them a better afterlife and watching over them as they are carried away on the winds of fire.
It’s an hour after the cremation is finished, and Orochimaru is shaking on his legs. He stumbles to the ashes, scoops them up with trembling hands and puts them in the box that contains his father’s ashes. He collects every last bit and mixes it together, and then he collapses onto himself.
There are arms around him, cradling his seven-year-old body like his father used to, as if Orochimaru weighs absolutely nothing, and it feels all to familiar.
He falls asleep with his parents’ ashes on his fingertips and curled up in a fetal position.
-0-
Harry is a strange man. He can’t quite speak Japanese, the pronunciation always more than a little bit off, and Orochimaru can’t quite wrap his tongue around the strange sounds that is his non-Japanese name.
But apparently he is the only thing he has left, the only thing left of his parents’ memory, and Orochimaru admits that even a little bit, he’s missed the man with his too green eyes and classic black hair.
It gives him something to look forward to, when he comes home after training, being greeted by wafting smoke and food on the table and someone at home to talk to. He had resigned himself to a life of grey and darkness and the house becoming something akin to nightmares and bad memories, but now Harry fills it with his too large presence and Orochimaru acknowledges the man’s ability to distract Orochimaru.
He says that they will make new memories together, and Orochimaru, stupidly, believes him.
Orochimaru keeps getting duped by people with personalities too big for themselves, like Jiraiya and now Harry. He can’t bring himself to get remotely angry about this fact, and just files it away as a character deficiency.
Harry is freaky and amazing and Orochimaru has always been in awe of the man that can fly without a wind jutsu, the man that can teleport without a seal, the man that can speak to snakes in their own language, not the common language that humans speak. He hisses to the snakes, soft and sibilant and Orochimaru tries to learn as well, hissing and choking on spit and hissing some more, which makes Harry laugh and tug him into a hug.
“You suck,” Orochimaru says, muffled in his shirt. “I want to learn.”
“You can learn, but it’ll take a long time,” Harry smiles into his hair, the baby snake – because Orochimaru doesn’t have enough chakra to summon the giant snakes just yet – hissing happily into his ear.
“We play with him, and bounce him, and hug, kiss and snuggle him. We exclaim over him and encourage him~ I believe-we do what most parents are supposed to do?”
Children with parental affection live better lives. They are happier individuals compared to children who are abandoned or abused by their own parents.
