Mr Sheriff's 7 Manly Daughters
Promo
- Sherrif's 7 Manly Daughters -
- Crimson Sherrif's Residence -
Esmeray
I literally just lack a dick
Esmeray
Is that the entry ticket to heaven or something?
Shibra
U r bleeding out! Sit down
Mikko
Her uterus is doing Performance Art again
Sable
She's overdoing on Estrogen or Attitude
Nyx
Whatever a man can do we can do it better
Shizal
we can multitask our trauma unlike them
Mikko
Grow Organs. Carry Babies
Sable
Hold in our screams.
Shizal
Smile through cramps
Nyx
U know casual violence
Sable
Also we don't die waking up in a pool of blood every month
Nyx
We make coffee & do our work
Sable & nyx exchange hi-fi
Esmeray
Did u get enough shibra sweetheart?
Shibra
Specially u Esmeray
Shibra
Ur tampon string's showing
•& the 7 accidents of fate•
Sheriff Crimson was the kind of man people only saw in professional settings — polished, poised, and so emotionally absent, he could’ve been raised by IKEA furniture.
City G called him the Mind Whisperer.
Clients cried. He took notes.
They left healed.
He left untouched.
And yet, beneath all that clinical perfection, he had one very human desire:
> To raise a son.
Someone who’d walk like him, talk like him, and inherit the same inability to process feelings without charts.
But marriage?
Absolutely not. That was a soap opera he refused to audition for.
So instead, he turned to
•
•
•
•
> Clause 1: The woman will carry the child.
Clause 2: The woman will leave after birth.
Clause 3: The child will belong to Sheriff Crimson — full custody, zero contact.
He ran this process seven times.
And every time, he hoped for a little version of himself — quiet, composed, possibly allergic to glitter.
But fate?
Fate was laughing so hard it nearly choked.
Seven daughters.
Each one louder than the last.
Witty, wild, and equipped with enough sarcasm to short-circuit a therapist’s brain.
No sons. Just 7 walking contradictions in eyeliner and combat boots, all calling him “Daddy” with the same energy people say “Oops” before burning a building down.
He wanted logic. He got lunacy.
He wanted calm. He got chaos in matching jackets.
But here's the twist no one expected —
He didn’t run.
He raised them, supported their unholy hobbies, showed up at PTA meetings (in psychological denial), and even defended them when they were very, very wrong.
Which was often.
He didn’t hug. He didn’t scold.
He just sat there with his tea, silently calculating the odds of making it to retirement alive.
And yet, if you looked closely…
Behind those tired eyes and stress-induced migraines,
was a strange, fragile pride.
They didn’t become his reflection.
They became his legacy.
And somehow, that was worse… and better.
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