#he calls him cherub and child

[scampvamp]

“Armand is so attached to Lestat because Lestat was the first person to desire him as a man and not a boy” this is plainly untrue. The first person to desire Armand as a man was Louis.

[kiame-sama]

this is so stupid but im currently cracking up the idea of yandere lilia totally forgetting that his (somewhat new) object of obsession has not been informed of his actual age yet and trying to hit on them only to get like.

"Uh huh kiddo, what are you, fourteen?"

and just being stuck going 'no i swear to god im like 400 its a faerie thing please stop laughing i am a father of three-'

What Are you, Twelve? (Yan!Lilia x Reader)

(Changed from 14 to 12 because that is my usual go-to age to guess when kids (under 21) try to hit on me (over 25))

Warnings; Yandere, yandere relationship, yandere behavior, yandere temper, age confusion, Silver/Sebek/Malleus have to vouch for Lilia, old man trying to have game,

~~~~~~~~

"You know, (y/n)," you wanted to sigh when you heard him start up again, knowing the odd lad from Diasomnia was back at his usual antics, "I certainly wouldn't mind a moonlit tousle through the grass with you any night... Or any day, for that matter."

Part of you wanted to laugh and part of you wanted to scream in frustration. This had been ongoing since you met the oddly young vice-housewarden of Diasomnia, Lilia. He was a cherub-faced pallid creature with pointed ears that made him look like an elf, and he was obviously quite interested in you. Problem was, you weren't interested because you were almost certain he wasn't even old enough to attend Night Raven College, let alone be hitting on you in such a direct way.

You would give credit where it is due, Lilia often spoke as if he were an old man and he could occasionally speak as if he were wise beyond his years. Still, that didn't change the fact that you were almost certain he was a child who got in to NRC due to an older sibling. You viewed the black and pink haired boy the same way you viewed Ortho; as a child. Hence the problem you now faced as that same cherub-looking boy shamelessly made a pass at you for the fifth time that day.

It was easy to ignore when you were in class despite how the young boy tried everything in his power to get your attention. However, you were now in the cafeteria and just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. You had been spending time by the table Diasomnia students often occupied because others avoided it, but now you may have to rethink the strategy as Lilia would come bouncing over the moment he saw you.

"Lilia, I just want to eat lunch."

"I would love to eat too! Perhaps later I can have a taste of you?"

Enough was enough. You tried to not snap at others- especially housewardens and vice-housewardens- but this kid was not getting the hint and you were getting annoyed. It had to be something his older siblings put him up to, as even now you could see the Diasomnia students watching the interaction keenly. You hadn't had much time in classes with these magically-gifted students, but you knew enough about them to know which student was likely Lilia's caretaker.

So without a word to Lilia, you stood and marched right over to the table the typical Diasomnia students frequented. The one with white hair- who you knew to be NRC's own 'sleeping beauty' Silver- and stood directly in front of him with a hand on your hip.

"Call off your little brother."

"... Excuse me?"

You pointed to Lilia- who had happily joined your side- with an exasperated sigh.

"Your little brother, call him off or explain to him that children shouldn't flirt with others who are several years their senior."

This made an odd choking sound escape the green haired one sitting next to Silver. Though you didn't know that one's name, you knew enough to recognize he was the one most often yelling in any class he attended. Before he could respond, the slow rumbling lilt of the housewarden of Diasomnia hummed out.

"Lilia is not Silver's little brother."

"Okay," you gave an exasperated shrug, "then whichever of you is supposed to be keeping an eye on him, teach him some manners. Trying to sleep with someone older than him will not end well for either party."

"... Child of man, enlighten me, how old do you believe Lilia to be?"

"Too young to be chasing me."

It was then Lilia spoke up, his usual playful smile gone and replaced with a more contemplative frown.

"I'm old enough."

"Kid, what are you, twelve? I am way too old for you."

The lasting moment of silence almost made you wonder if your assessment of the boy's age was incorrect as those sitting at the table all shared a look. Lilia was no longer the bouncing excitable boy he typically behaved as, straightening up as if he were offended by your assessment.

"Twelve years-? Ah, it seems I've forgotten to inform you of my true identity. I am not human, (y/n). I am Fae. We age differently compared to humans-"

"Okay, so you're several decades old, but you are mentally tweleve. I'm still too old for you."

"... Silver is my son. I raised him, Sebek, and Malleus from infancy or near infancy."

"And I'm the Queen of Hearts. Lies are still lies, Lilia. No matter how well you spin them."

"No, I'm being serious. I am basically a father of three-"

"Lilia, I'm being serious as well. Stop chasing people older than you. It's not alright to ask someone older than you to sit on your face, okay? You shouldn't even be thinking about these things until way later in life."

You walked from the table, content that you had made your point clear as you went back to your own lunch. Lilia was beside himself with surprise and he couldn't help but look to his three sons for some kind of aid or assistance.

"I am not twelve."

"Father... I've told you, if you insist on acting younger than your age, humans are going to believe you are actually young."

"Then you talk to them, Silver. Or I may have to drag Crowley into this. My youthful appearance should not interfere in my attempts to gain their affections. That would explain why they look at me so oddly whenever I try to proposition them, though. Still, you don't want your dear father to end up a lonely old man do you?"

"Of course not, Father, you would be an excellent match for anyone-"

"Exactly my thoughts! So be a good son and wing-man for your father."

"... This is going to end poorly."

[br0kenangel]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯.

The Red Keep was alive with the sounds of children at play. Laughter echoed through the corridors, and the warm afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting a golden glow over the stone floors. In one of the keep’s quieter corners, you sat in the nursery, surrounded by your beloved children.

Aegon and Aemond were playfully sparring with wooden swords, their faces lit with excitement as they practiced the moves Ser Criston had shown them. Helaena, ever the gentle soul, sat by the window, enraptured by a butterfly that had fluttered in and settled on her hand. And then there was Daeron, the youngest of the brood, who was currently cradled in your lap.

At just over a year old, Daeron was the apple of your eye—a sweet, cherubic child with a smile that could melt even the hardest of hearts. His bright violet eyes, so much like his father’s, sparkled with curiosity as he reached up to grasp at a lock of your golden hair. You laughed softly, letting him tug at it gently.

“You’re getting so big, little one,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over his soft, silver hair. “Soon you’ll be chasing after your brothers and sister.”

Daeron cooed in response, his tiny hand gripping your finger with surprising strength. You smiled down at him, your heart swelling with love. He was the last of your brood, the youngest of the children you had come to adore with every fiber of your being. You had loved him from the moment you first held him in your arms, and that love only grew stronger with each passing day.

You were softly humming a lullaby to him, your voice soothing and sweet, when you heard a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ma…”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Had you imagined it? You looked down at Daeron, who was staring up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his mouth slightly open as though he was about to speak again.

“Daeron?” you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. “Did you say something, sweetling?”

“Ma… Ma…” Daeron repeated, his little voice clear and earnest.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart overflowing with joy and love so intense it nearly overwhelmed you. Daeron’s first word—his very first word—was “Ma.” He had chosen you, called for you, recognized you as his mother.

The tears spilled over, and you clutched him to your chest, pressing kisses to his soft hair as the emotions you had held in check finally broke free. “Oh, Daeron, my sweet boy,” you whispered through your tears.

Your voice was thick with emotion, and you couldn’t stop the tears from falling. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated happiness. You had always known you were their mother in every way that mattered, but hearing it from Daeron’s own lips made it all the more real, all the more profound.

Across the room, Aegon and Aemond paused in their play, their wooden swords lowered as they noticed your tears. Aegon, always the more straightforward of the two, frowned in confusion. “Mother?” he called out hesitantly. “Why are you crying?”

Aemond, though younger, shared his brother’s concern. His sharp eyes, always so perceptive, were wide with worry as he watched you. “Is something wrong, Mother?” he asked, his small voice tinged with fear. The sight of your tears had shaken them, their protective instincts kicking in.

But before you could respond, Helaena spoke up from her spot by the window, her soft voice carrying a certainty that belied her years. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the butterfly, but she seemed completely aware of what had just transpired. “Don’t worry, she’s not sad,” Helaena said, her tone as gentle and serene as ever. “She’s just happy.”

Aegon and Aemond exchanged confused looks, but they trusted Helaena’s judgment. If she said Mother was happy, then it must be true. They relaxed, though they kept a close eye on you, just in case.

You managed to compose yourself enough to smile at your sons, though the tears continued to stream down your cheeks. “Helaena is right,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m just so very happy.”

You shifted Daeron slightly so you could look at all your children, your heart bursting with love for them. “Your brother,” you explained, your eyes shining with joy, “just said his first word.”

Aegon’s face lit up with a grin. “What did he say?”

“He said ‘Ma,’” you replied, your voice soft with wonder. “He called me ‘Ma.’”

Aemond’s eyes widened in awe, and even Aegon, who often tried to appear more mature than his years, couldn’t hide his excitement. “He did? That’s wonderful, Mother!”

Helaena, who had finally let the butterfly go, turned to you with a smile of her own. “He knows you love him,” she said simply, her words filled with a quiet wisdom that always amazed you. “That’s why he said it.”

You felt a fresh wave of tears threaten to spill over, but this time, you laughed through them, a sound full of joy and contentment. “Yes,” you agreed, looking down at Daeron, who was now gurgling happily in your arms. “I love all of you so very much.”

You reached out to Aegon and Aemond, pulling them into a tight embrace, and Helaena quickly joined them, her small arms wrapping around your waist. They stayed like that for a while, a tangle of limbs and love, a mother and her children finding comfort and joy in each other.

Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 5 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[bwabys-scenarios]

Kurapika can’t stand being away from you, his cute chubby girlfriend. You’re his everything, the only person that makes him feel complete and whole.

Before, Kurapika could hardly call himself clingy, but after meeting you he can’t deny the allegation. All he wants to do is cling to you as tight as possible, basking in your love and affection.

When he’s down, you comfort him, letting him lay his head on your chest or soft tummy while you play with his pretty blonde hair. His nightmares are frequent, and he often wakes you up in tears, begging to be held and to know that you won’t leave him all alone.

You’re so soft, a comfort that Kurapika has denied himself for so long. He wouldn’t let himself have those simple comforts, thinking he didn’t deserve it. But how could he deny you, his beloved? Warm, kind, and ever so soft. So curling up with you and getting to nestle against your plush frame after a hard day is more than enough to have him sighing in contentment.

One thing Kurapika enjoys is feeding you. Whether it be sweets, savory foods, or some kind of fruit/vegetable, he swoons when you make a happy face as he places something delicious to your lips. Plump women were desired in his clan, and making sure your significant other was well fed and happy was a way to show you cared.

So his pretty cherub eating from his hand, smiling and happy was all he wanted. Getting to lick up any of the mess was also… very satisfying.

Kurapika had once thought he’d spend his life alone, with no one there to love or accept him for who he truly was… but then he met you.

Already, he was attracted to your plump form and cute chubby cheeks, but you were endlessly kind and understanding, always sitting with him after he drank himself stupid and patting his back while he threw up.

Sometimes, the survivors guilt made simply existing a sin to him. Why did he get to keep living after his entire clan was wiped out? He wondered if everything would stop hurting if he just left this world and joined his kin in the afterlife…

But then he’d remember you and realize that if he stopped living, he would never feel your warmth again. He would never get to hold you tight to him, never get to hear you laugh and giggle when he said something that wasn’t supposed to be funny, but made you laugh anyways. He’d never get to teasing pinch your chubby cheek when you messed up and scold you, making those cute cheeks heat up until he felt the urge to coo and gently caress them.

And most importantly, if he died, he’d be leaving the woman he adored behind. That’s when he realized he had fallen for you, and that nothing could separate him from you, not even his own depression and pain.

So Kurapika decided to live for you until he could learn to live for himself, and living for you and everything so easy and sweet.

He spoiled you, taking you shopping often, getting you custom made clothing when the items in store didn’t come in your size or fit like they were supposed to. Any little thing you asked for was yours, and he quite enjoyed getting to see you all dolled up for him.

Especially when he got to take it all off and make love to you after a romantic date together.

Getting to fuck into your warm, fat pussy and hold onto your plump thighs as you writhed and moaned beneath him really made Kurapika glad he stuck around. Otherwise he wouldn’t be cumming inside his princess, filling her chubby tummy to the brim with his seed.

Suckling on your pretty breasts, covering your neck in his love bites and marking you as his makes him feel at ease. Although he feels a bit bad watching you put on a scarf to hide all the marks he left, part of him is proud. You’re his little cherub, and no one else can have you.

The only thing that could ever make him love you more would be the sight of your already plump tummy swelling with his child.

Kurapika wants to take care of you for the rest of his life and provide you a comfortable life. He adores you, you’re all he has left. And when you only have one thing left, you treat it with the utmost care, don’t you?

[brailsthesmolgurl]

WHERE'S MUMMY? PT.2

My first part has received an amazing amount of response, hence I decided that I would come out with a part two, and who knows? Maybe this could be another mini series for the boys? :)))) Regardless, enjoy the read!

Warnings: Comfort and Fluff, Slight Angst for some parts. Mentions of smexy times for one, suggestive for another. ANONS ARE POOPY SOMETIMES BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN I WILL STOP WRITING SUGGESTIVE HAHA :(

RAFAYEL & MARIELA

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" Mariela's voice could be heard from the other room at the end of the hallway as she called out to her father. Rafayel, who was busy working on one of his art pieces, dashed towards her room at full speed, panicking at how she was calling out to him. He slammed the door open, claymore ready to be withdrawn only to find his daughter on the floor, with paint all over her face and the canvas that he had provided to her.

One may ask why did Rafayel left his daughter all alone in her room while he was working on his art piece. Rafayel, being a good father, had coaxed his daughter for 30 minutes, with candies and also anything she could possibly want, only to be rejected by her. Her adamant 'NO's made Rafayel confused as to why she would want to paint alone in her room. 'I can do this myself daddy' was the last sentence she told him before she closed the door. And he wondered where she got the attitude from, and he had a good guess probably inherited from her independent mother.

So Rafayel sat at the living room, in his usual thinking corner, painting his artwork, but also carefully listening to anything that might go on in the room. He did tried and checked up on her a couple of minutes ago, knocking on her door and asking if she would like any biscuits with milk but the young child only replied 'NO' as if that is the only word she knew for the morning.

"I thought something happened to you, my little fishie." Rafayel sighed in relief, walking over to her to look at what she had drawn. He took a seat next to her and looked at her face. "How did you managed to get paint on both the canvas and your face?" He pulled the little girl into his lap and he chuckled, using his thumb to try and rub the paint off of her face and luckily it came off pretty easily. He silently thanked your effort in purchasing non-toxic paints for Mariela.

"I wanted to do it like how daddy do it." Her smile was angelic, one of Rafayel's trademark. She reenacted how she did it, by drawing air circles on her palm and on her face. "I drew here, and here and..." She flattened her palms and plopped her face onto the surface of her palms. Rafayel was in shock at her creativity.

"So you used your hands and your face as tools to draw?" He tilted his head and when the toddler nodded giddily, Rafayel pinched her cherubic cheeks. "You are an artist just like me. No wonder you're my daughter." He kissed her cheeks and carried her up in his arms. "Now, let's get you washed up and then we will show this piece to mummy when she is back from work okay?"

"OKAY!" She cheered, both arms flying up into the air and Rafayel laughed, bringing her into the bathroom to wash her off from the mess she had brought upon herself.

The roars of your motorbike could be heard and that led Mariela to jump off of the couch, with Rafayel catching up behind her quickly. "Mummy's home!" Mariela was elated, trying to turn the door knob the best she could but with her size and strength, she is not able to. Rafayel came to the rescue on time and he opened the door, smiling when he spotted you getting off of your motorbike and unclasping the buckle of your helmet, swiftly removing the headgear and placing it on your motorbike's seat. "Mummy!"

"Hey there sweetie!" You called out and shuffled over, arms wide opened and your daughter embraced you within your arms. "How was your day today hmm?"

The latter question of yours was directed towards your husband, who was standing against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his torso while watching both of his favourite women walking towards him. "It was good because there is a surprise." He winked at you and you both shared a peck, before heading in. "Mariela, do you want to show mummy what you drawn today?"

"Yeah! Yeah!" The little girl wriggled out of your arms smoothly and she waddled off to her room. You took a seat on the marble floor and awaited for your daughter's return. Rafayel taking a seat right next to you and he encircled his arms around your waist, giving your side a soft knead. The soft sound of thuds closing in when your daughter came out from her room, with something behind her back. "Mummy close your eyes."

Your husband then got behind you and he used his palms to cover your eyes, nodding towards your daughter to proceed further. Mariela pulled the canvas out from behind her and she placed it in your lap, before taking your hand cautiously and put it on her canvas. Rafayel released his hold on your face and you looked down, gasping in surprise at what your daughter had managed to colour on her canvas. But, you can't make out any shapes or sizes, other than two hand prints of hers and what seems to be an imprint of your daughter's face.

"This is so nice of you sweetie." You pulled her in for a hug and kissed her head. "Did you do this with your hands and face?" You asked just to be sure and her reaction made you stared at Rafayel. The actual artist staring back at you, shrugging his shoulders and muttering something along the lines of 'she did not want me to see what she was doing, so I left her to her own creativity'.

"Abstract art is great!" Rafayel smiled, ruffling his daughter's brunette curls which had grown a bit longer. "Daddy can put this in the next exhibition and you can go with me to see it." Rafayel looked at his daughter and she cheered, hugging you tightly and you beckoned your husband in for a hug as well.

On the day of the exhibition, Rafayel was busy attending to the guests, completing his interviews and taking pictures with his fans. You are spending time with Mariela, hand holding hers as the both of you walked through the exhibition halls. Pink and blue and purple, all colours within the same spectrum covered the walls in forms of splatters, lace ribbons were tapered to the ceilings, to add on a touch of elegance. No doubt your husband has 'extravagance' as his middle name.

Almost every corner is littered with his artworks, ranging from abstract to rough sketches, to impressionism paintings to sculptures. Rafayel is a master to all types of artworks, which gained him the fame and respect he has gotten till now. The wooden flooring resonated the sound of your footsteps, heels clacked against it in sync. You looked down at your daughter to notice the little girl has her mouth agaped, staring at all of her father's artworks in awe. Same, Mariela, same.

"Is that the daughter he had mentioned about?" A distant voice could be heard echoing from the end of the hallway and you turned around, seeing a woman clad in a formal outfit, hair neatly tied back and a microphone in her hand. A camera man right behind of her with one of his huge video cameras situated on his shoulder. "Hi, can we do an interview?"

Out of politeness, you agreed, smiling and nodding your head and the reporter crew started to approach you and your daughter. You lowered yourself down to carry Mariela up into your arms so that she could be within the shot as well, assuming the reporter would like a word or two with the renowned artist's daughter.

"How would you describe living with Rafayel, a famous artist?" The reporter held out the mic to you, awaiting for your response.

"Uhm...living with Rafayel has always been a pleasant one, as he does take care of me and my daughter's needs." You replied, a smile coming forth. "He is a good husband and a good father."

"That is good to note. Rafayel sure do cares about you guys a lot. But, would you care to say that you fell in love with him because he is rich and famous?" The daring assumption made by the reporter made you scowled in 4k on the Linkon's National Television Network.

Your eyebrows are now knitted together, your facade of being nice slowly fading behind your rising annoyance. "No. I certainly do not and will never love him just because of his wealth and fame. I love him for the way he is."

"Fans had also mentioned that you do not seem to be a good example of a mother given you are a deepspace hunter yourself. Moreover, given the recent decrease in recruits, you had to take up double shifts to cover for the incident. What do you have to say regarding this?" The woman smirked, knowing she had struck a nerve in you. Her tone coated in layers of disdain and you can see it right through. This is a personal attack towards you and your family.

Before you could retort the question, you felt a hand on the small on your back and you turned around, your husband standing upright beside you. A look you knew all too well shown on his face. "Get out of my exhibition." The crew feigned innocence, looking at one another to mentally convince themselves that they had done nothing wrong other than doing their jobs. "Nobody disrespects my wife and my family like that. Be it fans or reporters or anyone else. SO you can kindly see yourself out before I call on my security guards." The edge of his lips curled into a cunning smirk. "Which I think might not look good on your company's reputation if they were to escort you guys out."

The bunch of strangers started dispersing out of the family's sight and you looked at Rafayel, who is quick to take Mariela off of your arms and into his. "Are you okay?" He ran the back of his hand across your cheek. "I am sorry, I should have been by your side the whole time." He apologised, putting the blame onto himself but you held his hand in yours, thumb rubbing comforting circles.

"Don't say that Rafayel. You were just doing what Thomas has asked of you. I can fend for myself if those remarks were thrown to me." You gave him a peck on your cheek. "Even if the day you end up being homeless and broke, I will still love you." You looked over to your daughter, who had cosied up to her father's neck, fast asleep.

"The same thing applies from me to you too, cutie." The use of the old nickname rolling off of the tip of his tongue made you bit your lip and you could not help but to smile, looking down at your heels. His finger lifted your chin up, and he pressed a kiss onto your lips lovingly in the middle of the exhibition hallway, ensuring that reporters who may be passing by would be able to catch a glimpse of his actual exhibition of love.

ZAYNE & LUMI & IVER

"Good morning." You could make out Zayne's husky voice and his weight was pressed up slightly against your back, a kiss then planted on your cheek. "Today is Lumi and Iver's presentation day. The one where they have to bring a parent along and to introduce them."

"Oh it's today?" You asked, yawning and stirring yourself to wake. You turned over to face your husband and you opened one eye. "I totally forgotten about it." Zayne smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips this time. You felt particularly tired because today is one of those rare off days you could get whenever Wanderer sightings are not reported as often, and perhaps, with the amount of lovemaking you had gone through with Zayne last night, it was a little hard for you to just jump out of bed and get ready for now.

"I can go on behalf on us as I do not need to be in the hospital today." He smoothed his hand over your hair, staring at you lovingly with those alluring hazel-green eyes of his. "So, take your time to rest, my love. You deserve it." Another kiss is pressed to your lips for a few seconds and he got out of bed, walking over to you to pull his side of blanket over your half naked body. "I don't want you to get a cold, so you may take my side of the blanket too."

You smiled warmly at him in return and managed to catch a glimpse of his toned physique when he walked towards the bathroom to wash himself up. Once he was done, he went over to the kids' room to wake them up. "Lumi, Iver. It's time to wake up." He said gently, pushing the curtains open to draw in the sunlight. The twins slowly stirred awake and they both sat up in their beds, in a half awake state.

"Morning daddy." Lumi spoke, with Iver saying the same exact greeting a few seconds behind. As if by routine, they both extended their arms out and Zayne picked both of them up in one-go, bringing them to the bathroom so they could get washed up and get dressed for school.

Pulling up at the twin's kindergarten, Zayne parked at the allocated parking lots for the parents and he got out of the car, immediately getting stares and comments from the bystanders in hushed whispers. Not only does he own a fancy car that most parents could not afford, but he is also extremely good looking. He popped the backseat's door open and escorted both of his kids into the kindergarten's premises.

Zayne sat on the floor, just like the other parents but it felt a little out of place for him as he was the only father who attended this event. The usual stigma regarding kids shall always be tied to a mother's responsibility but Zayne has never believed in that. He strongly believes that childrens are a result of both sides of parents, hence they should be a shared responsibility for both parents.

Lumi and Iver sat in front of their father, and they noticed the way their classmates were looking over to them. "Is that your daddy?" One of the classmates asked Lumi, the toddler about her size, with big brown eyes and short brown bob. Lumi nodded in return. "My mummy say he looks very nice." The comment made Zayne looked over at the parent who is in charge of the talking child and the mother looked away in embarassment.

As usual, Zayne is used to this kind of scenarios, even in hospitals he would always be stared at by patients, some even going as far as to state that they are cured because of how handsome he is. Zayne however, never bought into any of those bullshit. It is not because he is egoistic, but he does not want to be downplayed because of his looks. The saying goes, if you are handsome, you get a certain privilege amongst the normies. Zayne wanted to prove that idea to be a total scam as looks does not necessarily equate to one's actual capabilities in getting things done. Zayne being a prime example.

The homeroom teacher came in after the bell had finished ringing and she welcomed all of the parents' attendance. Goes on about the agenda for the day and that this event is held to encourage stronger bonds between parents and children and amongst their peers as well. "Lumi and Iver's father, would you like to be the first one to start?" She asked Zayne, palms out and pointed towards him.

"Sure." The man replied, clearing his throat and standing up, his towering height a stark difference from his children. He walked to the front of the classroom. Kids of their age would have thought of him being the giant in the beanstalk fairytale if only he had green skin and a big nose. Zayne pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and greeted everyone. "Good morning everybody, my name is Zayne and I am the father to Lumi and Iver." He sent a smile towards his kids. "I am the chief surgeon and leading cardiologist for Akso Hospital."

Zayne talked about his job, keeping it brief and non-technical as he does not want to bore anyone within the room and he does not find the need to reveal too much of his personal information. Now comes the questioning phase, in which the parents would ask questions towards the speaker to get to know them better. "Dr. Zayne, since you are a doctor, would your work take up a lot of time?" One of the ladies asked, readjusting her position on the mat.

"Yes it does." Simple and clear-cut.

"Then do you have a wife to take care of the kids for you?" Her question turned into a flirtatious attempt and a couple of other mums started to tune in, some biting their lip and some fixing their hair. Does not take one to know what was already running through their minds.

Zayne sighed, feeling indifferent to her question. He purposely held his left hand in front of his chest and he twisted the wedding band that is evident on his ring finger, the diamond cut on the simple band refracting the sunlight almost immediately. The lady who asked her question seemingly tried to choke back on her own words, face darkening to a shade akin to a tomato. "Of course I do. A doctor would not be in his or her right mind to have kids and to work full time when our job requires us to be on call for 24/7."

He continued. "My wife is a full time deepspace hunter and we are both equally as involved in our children's lives, just on intervals for the weekdays, but on weekends, we take more time to nurture them." The way he phrased his answer made the whole room went silent, the only sound present being the chirps of the birds coming from outside of the window.

"We are home mummy!" Both of the twins shouted together, placing their shoes onto the shoe rack and dashing into the house to look for their mother. Zayne followed in suit, keeping an eye on them two so they do not end up falling.

"Hey there my babies!" You called out from your bedroom, already dressed up and wide awake. Lumi and Iver both in their tiny white uniforms with stripes of blue, the uniform colour of the kindergarten they both attended. Lumi's dark hair was tied into a neat braid, an effort from Zayne's Youtube history having a streak watch for braid tutorials. Iver's hair however is soft and fluffy, the same as his father’s and it sat on top of his head like a cloud.

"How was the parent meeting?" You asked them two, and they both enveloped you into a big hug, each on one side. Both of your kids looked very happy so you assumed that it went well.

"All of our friends brought mummies." Iver stated. "Nobody bring their daddies to school today." Lumi nudged Iver and whispered something into his ear in her low voice and the boy reiterated what her sister said. "Oh and Cathy's mummy said daddy looks very good."

"She said he is handsome." Lumi corrected Iver and they both turned in sync to watch your reaction. What could you possibly say? Your husband is good looking, it is a bound-to-happen situation but you somehow wished you were the one that attended the event instead. A small slither of jealousy bubbled in your stomach. Just a tiny one.

You were wondering if Zayne took the lady's compliment until you saw your husband walking into the room, with a stoic look. He has always been stoic, yes, but this time, something is different about this look of his. His white formal collared shirt hugged his muscled figure well, his simple black tie hanging loosely below the third button, extending one's sight on his wide sets of shoulders and his v-line figure. His sleeves were folded to his forearm, veins lining against the exposed part of his arms. He placed the car keys and his glasses onto the makeup table and sent you a short look, the side of his lips pulled up into a greeting and loving smile. "Good morning, y/n."

"Good morning, my love." You wanted to believe that Zayne did not entertain the lady's compliment, but you just wanted to hear him say it. So, y/n decided to go with an indirect approach. "Kids, can you wait for mummy outside? Daddy and mummy have to talk a little." Once both of the kids had left, you turned to your 'sulking' husband who was busy changing into a more comfortable outfit. "Come on, what happened?"

"Apparently, I was the only male figure there." He spoke informatively. "And particularly, I do not find it likeable when the other parents think that I am a single parent." His sentence got you figuring when did he ever cared about what people think about him? Has the cold Dr. Zayne finally loosened up? "I find it disrespectful towards you despite them meeting me for the first time." He sounds offended and yet providing the benefit of the doubt to the other parents.

You stared at him, perplexed at the situation. "So, conclusively, you do not enjoy going to the parent's meeting?" You crossed your arms in front of your torso. "Because you do not like the way I got low-key disrespected by the other mums?" A part of you is tasting victory at the tip of your tongue for how protective he is, another part of you---, okay there's no other part. It is the least Zayne could do to show you and the others that he is in a happy marriage and you are fully content with the way he had handled it.

There is not a need to address your concerns of the woman calling him handsome anymore because you know well enough if Zayne had wanted to cheat on you, he could have done it many times given his popularity amongst the opposite sex. But he stayed loyal through thick and thin and had never made you doubt his loyalty and love to you, this being one of his prime examples of being a fine husband.

Zayne chuckled under his breath and came closer to you, both of his hands held your arms and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. "Low-key is too minimal of a word to describe their assumptions. It is disrespectful for them to assume I am a single parent, when I have a model wife right here with me." He ran his hands repeatedly up and down your arms to comfort you.

"Furthermore, I do enjoy going to Lumi and Iver's events at the kindergarten but perhaps next time, I would much prefer it if you went with me." He pulled you into his arms and you surrendered within his hug. "So that we can spend time with the kids and I get to indirectly dismiss any ladies who may be interested in taking your place." Your laugh further made him look forward to the upcoming event for his kids' kindergarten.

XAVIER & LUCIAN

"Daddy, what are you doing?" Lucian appeared from behind his bedroom door, one eye opened while the other half-lidded. Xavier took a peek at the clock hung on the wall. 10.30am. Lucian, however, is looking at the desk filled with all sorts of sewing needles and a bunch of fabric lapped over one another. "Are you making something daddy?" His eyebrows hinged upwards and he tried to get onto his tip toes to see what was placed on the table. Seeing his son struggling, he carried the little boy up into his arms and placed him on his lap. "I am trying to sew mum a toy, you know, like the ones that you can get from the souvenir shops and all?" Lucian looked between his father and the mess on the table, figuring out how does one make a bunch of cloths into a toy. The limitation of imagination a normal happening for a toddler his age. "What should we make for mummy?"

"A big teddy bear!" The son exclaimed, arms wide and laughing happily. Xavier chuckled along, his son not lacking any bit of his wife's enthusiasm. "Rabbit? Mummy likes rabbits." The son pressed his small index finger to his own lips, thinking to himself. The suggestion of his made Xavier's cheeks flushed red, remembering that one time when you brought him to an event and made him dressed up as a rabbit themed butler, and that is how he met Lucian's mum. Ironic, I know.

"Yeah, I guess a rabbit would do." A sigh escaped his lips when he noticed none of the cloths on the table are white. Unless his wife would be able to appreciate a multi-coloured rabbit toy, he did not want to risk it. "We need to go shopping for some stuffs. Can you go and change your clothes Lucian?" Xavier instructed and the little boy headed off to his bedroom as he was previously trained. As much as independence goes, you and Xavier had decided that some good habits have to be instilled from young. Dressing himself up being one of the disciplines you guys had agreed on.

Xavier got himself changed into a simple white t-shirt and a pair of wide jeans. Surprisingly and yet not surprisingly, Lucian came out of his room, holding a same blue jeans in his hand. "Daddy, can you help me? It is hard to pull it up-up." He pouted, handing Xavier the jeans. Steadying himself, Xavier pulled the jeans up his legs and helped him to button it. "Thank you daddy." The son grinned from ear to ear and held onto Xavier's hand, going over to put on his shoes.

Initially, they were going to ride the motorbike to get to where they are headed, but given the sun is high up the skies today, it calls for a chance for the both of them to enjoy a walk under the clear and warm weather. Xavier did brought along an umbrella as well, in case Lucian gets a little hot. Just because he enjoys the sun, he does not immediately assume his son would enjoy it as much. A lesson he had learned from his wife when you got a fever after walking with him under the sun despite you not being able to stand the heat.

The streets today are not as busy as the normal weekends, with minimal traffic and pedestrians. "Are you tired already?" Xavier observed his son, his footsteps slowing down and slightly wonky. Lucian looked up at his towering father and shake his head, hand coming up to rub his eyes and he yawned. Tears lined his eyes and Xavier bent down to carry his son up into his arms. "It's okay, you can take a nap in my arms, kiddo."

He walked down the street, passing by a coffee shop that looked newly opened. As he was looking through the menu that was on a stand outside, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Fishing it out of his pocket, he noticed that his wife is contacting him. "Hello? Baby?" He immediately pressed the phone to his ear. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. I woke up to an empty house. Where are you and Lucian?" You asked and he gulped, luckily he had kept the threads and sewing kits and fabrics or else the surprise factor would be ruined.

"Lucian told me that he wanted to have a walk at the park. Since you are still sound asleep, I decided to bring him out for a small walk." Xavier explained, head tilting slightly to look at his son. Still sound asleep within his arms. "We will be back around 15 minutes. Is there anything you would like me to get for you?"

"Some coffee would be great, Xavier." You smiled on the other side of the line, same as him. "Be safe when you are at the park with Lucian alright? I will just rest a bit more at home." You informed him and the call ended with 'Bye' and 'I love you'.

Arriving at a craft store, he lightly woke his son up by kissing his cheek. "We are here Lucian, would you like to accompany me to decide on what colour to get for mummy?" Lucian blinked open his eyes, those light blue irises of his slowly darkened to make up for the lack of lighting within the store. The trinkets neatly placed in various baskets and boxes amazed the child, there are so many things he would like to get his hands on.

"Hi there, how may I help you?" A senior appeared from behind the counter. A lovely lady with a hunched figure, her own kitting works worn on her. Xavier leaned closer to the counter, noticing the vast amount of fabrics, of all sizes and textures mapped out behind the counter. There are also several pictures, in monogramic style, featuring the old lady in her younger days and what seems to be her children, standing side by side, smiling with her. Her light brown eyes lit up when she caught sight of Xavier and Lucian. "Oh, what a precious child."

"Thank you." Xavier thanked her. The old lady laid her knitting items down onto the table she had beside her and she reached her wrinkly hand up to wave it in front of Lucian. The young kid was quick to react, using his tiny hand to wrap around the lady's index finger and Xavier swear he could have seen the old woman regained her youth at that moment. Perhaps reminiscing about the times when she had her kids alongside her. "I am here to get some fabric so I can make a stuffed toy for my wife."

Now it is Xavier's time to have a hunched back. He never thought the process of sewing a stuffed toy would be so complicated. Can't blame him, given his royalty background in Philos and him being an esteemed deepspace hunter in this dimension, why would he even go near anything related to sewing and knitting? It is however, a part-time hobby of yours, as you mentioned that you find it to be peaceful and helps you to focus better. It is also a good past time on the days when you are not busy out on the field.

"Daddy, daddy look at that!" Lucian called out and his head turned towards the direction his son pointed at. Claw Machine Store. Why has he never thought of just taking things the easy route? Because he did not want to. Catching a stuffed toy from a claw machine will always surpass the level of easiness as compared to making a stuffed toy from scratch. Furthermore, the thought of you finding out he actually put in the effort to make the stuffed toy for you would leave your heart melting. He wanted that from you, or more like he just wants you to be happy.

Across the street stood the claw machine store, with stuffed toys filled to the brim for each of the machines, begging to be caught. Your son's eyes are fully attached to the store now, already making mental marks on which toys he would want in his room. Your husband lack that enthusiasm, staring down at the huge bag of craft items he had just purchased from the store. He is debating against himself. Whether to catch a toy or to make one. Either one could predict for different endings, but he knows that you would be happy for both endings. Perhaps he was slightly irritated for the measuring of the level for your happiness.

"Let's go Lucian." He grabbed his son and heaved him upwards, holding the child in his arms like how one carries a log and he crossed the empty street. His feet light and quick in his steps, a habit obtained from his long-time combat instincts. The borders of the tar road ended when he stepped onto the padded pavement, putting his son down and watched as the kid hopped into the store. Xavier was quick on his tail, worried that something might happen to his son.

Luckily, the little boy with the light hair is easy to spot amongst the assemblage of neon lights and bright colours emitting from the machines. Lucian stood in front of a machine, hands pressed against the glass panel, hair stained pink from the light strobe of the machine. "Can we get this one for mummy?" His grin was angelic, but Xavier stood there, slightly stunned. Did his son perhaps doubted his sewing abilities as well like how he doubted his cooking abilities? Well, there is a possibility.

"But I bought these already kiddo. I thought we were going to make a toy for mummy." Xavier tried to test the waters and his son only responded with gestures, tine finger tapped at the glass panel again, pointing directly at the bunny plushie. "Lucian..." Xavier tried to coax him again.

Lucian then faced his father, lips pursed together. "The granny told me that you might get hurt from sewweng." The last word that has not been registered in his vocabulary. "I don't want daddy to get hurt. I don't think mummy will be happy too." For a 3-year old, his sensibility is admirable. His son's words changed his mind, and he gave the little boy a card, the one where he usually reloads a bit too much tokens in it for any sorts of arcades. "Let's get one for mummy together okay?"

"You," You closed the bedroom door behind you, a pastel pink stuffed rabbit in your grasp. Lucian had already being put to sleep shortly after his dinner because the poor boy was dozing off on the dining table. Today could have been a long day for your son. You watched your husband shifted his gaze from the mukbang show on the television to you. "Are a bad liar."

"What do you mean?" His voice feigning innocence when he sat up in a better posture, leaning against the bedframe now. "What have I done this time?"

"Lucian told me that you stitched this yourself." Your teasing smile is apparent to him now, you wiggling the bunny in your hands to show him the evident of his works.

"Do you not believe me?" Xavier's eyes widened, here comes the puppy look. He got out of the bed and slowly approached you. His aura taking a turn from being accused to being the accuser. "Or, do you not want to believe that I stitched it?"

You took a step back, your lower back pressed against the makeup table and he caged you, arms extended on both sides of your figure and he leaned in, smirking and chuckling lowly under his breath. "I...I...didn't know you could stitch toys." Your breath hitched in your throat as you could feel his warm breath fanned across your cheeks.

"I feel a little bit upset now." He expressed, pressing a soft and longing kiss onto your cheek and you jolted in shock. "Your son and I had tried to get a toy for you at the arcade today but we kind of finished the credits because the machine was problematic." You would safely put a finger on the fact that he is just bad at claw machine games as per usual. "So, Lucian and I decided to go back to the store where we bought the craft products from and got the old lady behind the counter to give us a crafting lesson. Then this bunny is the outcome of the lesson."

You can feel your heart bloomed at his explanation. You felt bad for doubting his skills, and you even thought that the bad stitching of the toy is a trend nowadays hence you assume your poor husband went off fishing at the claw machine arcades. You should not have doubted his determination. "I'm sorry Xavier, I didn't mean to. I just never thought you would go so out of your way to make me a stuffed bunny. I just---" His index finger slid past your bottom lip at a painfully slow pace.

"Sometimes, you can choose other methods to let me know that you're sorry." He whispered quietly and leaned down to kiss you, the doll you were holding taken out of your hands and tossed behind him, landing on the floor with a thud and your vision blended out into both of your igniting passion.

Here you go lovelies, this is part two for the LNDS boys with their kids and you <3

Leave me your thoughts and love <3 Have a nice day to all me lovelies!!!!

[satorhime]

trouble comes twice ࿐ gojo satoru x female reader. satoru falls ill with a case of baby fever after seeing his baby girl dressed up as him.

content . ᕀ gojo and reader are parents [ referred to as ‘dada’ & ‘mama’ ], brief mention of pregnancy, emotional!gojo, sweet fluff with slightly suggestive dialogue at the end. 

“dada- dada, look at me!” 

your daughter screeches out, announcing her arrival with the bright and melodic babble of a mischievous child. she stands on her tippy toes, her fingers covering your own as she helps you twist the knob and open the door to satoru’s office. 

even now, he forgets that he’s a father, until he is reminded in the most wonderful way. sometimes, your five-year-old will beg to wake satoru up two hours before he has to go to work just so they can play with her dolls together, or she’ll step all over his toes as she squeezes in between him and the kitchen counter while the three of you cook dinner together or like right now, crashing towards him with all the subtlety of a carpet bomb of cursed energy— so eager to show off her costume that her feet accidentally stumble over your heels. 

dressed up as a miniature version of him. 

his lips curve into an instant grin, pressing the button on the screen of the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder to end his current call.  the sound of the higher up scolding him cutting off sharp and abrupt makes his grin widen. they can wait, but his baby girl cannot. twisting in his chair, he catches his daughter just as she collides against him with an audible oof. 

“did we interrupt an important call?” you greet him, a soft smile on your glossy lips as you walk around the large desk satoru is seated at. you pat a hand to his knee before leaning against the edge of his desk. “sorry, i tried to get her to wait.” 

“you kiddin’? nothing’s more important than my two best girls,” he says, tugging at the bottom edge of his blindfold to drag it down, his expression playful as he watches his daughter copy him. she hurriedly removes her own blindfold, a tiny scrap of cloth covering her summer blue eyes. 

“so who are you?” he teases her, twitching one milky brow at the bouncing toddler in front of him. “where’s princess? did a curse finally eat my snotty kid?”  

“i’m the strongest!” your daughter chirps excitedly, crisscrossing two baby fingers to mimic his domain summon. 

your bitty sprout is so precious with her tiny white curls, tied into two space buns and her black blindfold that she scratches at with the back of her fist. not to mention, the bottom half of her cherub face is covered by the high collar of the jacket she’s wearing, identical to gojo’s standard uniform and the result of you staying up all night at your sewing machine, shredding one of his spares into a costume for your daughter. 

looking at her like this, she really is a tinier, stickier version of gojo satoru. 

“the strongest, huh? look at that, you’re already my favorite child. megumi would never offer to take my place so i can retire early.” 

“satoru…” you start, shaking your head in half-hearted exasperation. “when she picks up your sass and uses it against you, i’ll be the first to say “i told you so.’” 

“worried you’ll be outnumbered, mama?” he shoots the words at you, flashing a smile that amusement drizzles from like sweet icing. 

you roll your eyes, and then he turns back to his daughter, reaching down to effortlessly gather her against his broad chest before he pulls gently at one of her fat cheeks, nuzzling her close. “how come you chose to dress up as me, jellybean? it’s not october.” 

“i’m going to a costume party for keigo and haru,” she explains excitedly, her little face brightening at the mention of suguru’s sons. “but mama couldn’t find scarlet witch costume.” 

“oh, ouch,” he whines dramatically, placing a hand over his heart and pretending to be wounded by her open honesty. “wound me some more.” 

“dada, you’re so dramatic,” she giggles at him, and though satoru’s genetics may have overpowered your own for the most part, the roll of her eyes is a trait she learned directly from you. 

“second place is a serious injury, little princess. i should go see if shoko’s awake to make sure i’m not dying-”

“i wanted to dress up as dada because he’s a hero, like avengers,” she cuts him off, so perceptive and honest. your daughter latches on to the collar of his jacket so she can pull his head closer and plant him a slobbery mwah! on his cheek, and if you see gojo’s eyes mist over, glassy ocean blue from tears, you don’t comment on it. 

“down, please,” she requests, grunting and wriggling until he sets her down on the floor with a wobbly chuckle. unaware that her father’s expression has glazed over, his mind spiraling from her words. 

gojo satoru doesn’t even shed tears at funerals, but right now? his eyes flicker to you desperately, and you soften like clouds, nodding silently. 

“sweet pea, the party starts at 3:30 so you have plenty of time to show megumi-nii your costume, why don’t you?” you suggest, giving your boyfriend a moment to discreetly wipe the wet away from his cheeks. sure, he’s seen his students grow into formidable sorcerers that he is infinitely proud of and sure, he may have gotten choked up once or twice while snapping memories of megumi’s important milestones— like his middle school graduation, and that one time he didn’t insult gojo loudly when he picked him up from class in front of his peers— but this…? this overwhelms him, the kind of love he feels right now.

this love… this love is so different, something he’s never experienced before. it’s unlike quick flings brought home from bars, trying to lift the weight off his shoulders for a couple of hours with a pretty face. it’s unlike the near religious idolization from his clan, smothering him with their expectations and obsessive admiration. it’s whole and pure— it’s his family, his true one. it’s you and your baby girl driving away his loneliness like sunlight chases down bad dreams. 

“okay, mama!” she agrees, nodding.

“but go directly to his room. remember where it is?” 

“i remember!” 

“i’ll be right behind you after i talk to your da. don’t annoy megumi-nii too much, ‘kay?” you turn around, opening the door to let your daughter out of satoru’s office and into the long corridor where you watch as she waddles in the direction to megumi’s room. when you can no longer see her, you step back into the office and shut the door before turning to look at your boyfriend. “she’s so excited to go to this party. it’s supposed to be superhero-themed and she wanted to dress up as wanda maximoff, but- are you still crying?” 

satoru barely remembers moving so quick, reaching out to hook one of his strong arms around your waist to pull you into his lap sideways.. he barely remembers cupping your cheeks into his big palms as if you’re his most precious thing, a goddess that carved out a piece of heaven for him to hold here on earth. your body is rounded and soft, a comfort to him when his emotions get the best of him. his eyes, pale blue like the northern glaciers, flicker over your face— to your expression that is more than concerned, and your lips that are parting to ask if he’s okay, and then, he’s kissing you—

you gasp, but your initial surprise melts into love, like a piece of chocolate held between your fingertips for too long, because you know what came over him now. you feel it too sometimes, when you see him bonding with your baby girl. it’s sweet, the way he spells words into those kisses— gratitude, affection, and something a little more primal that you can’t place. 

god, he knows you can feel his tears, saltine as they slip traitorously down his cheeks to pool in between the cracks of your joined lips.

when he pulls away a little, you wipe his wet cheeks with your thumbs, your heart tender from the aches until he ruins the moment by whispering four words against your lips that make your big doe eyes widen to full moons. 

“i want another one.” 

huh.

“are you crazy?” you whisper-shout, laying a fist against his chest to keep him from moving closer and indulging him in another kiss. before jellybean was born, having a child together had not been in either of your wishlists for the future, but two pale pink lines gleaming on your bathroom counter five years ago had changed everything and now, you couldn’t imagine life without her. 

but another one? 

“don’t tell me you’re getting baby fever just because she dressed up as you.” 

satoru doesn’t know what has come over him. he never wanted to have children of his own anyway. it was one of those stubborn pacts he made with himself when he was young and flippant. but seeing his baby girl dressed up as him— calling him a hero above all of his faults and failures— is making him want an entire litter with you, a dream team.

“she said i was a hero. i need to hear that from at least one more little me.” 

“we’re not having another baby just to feed your ego, satoru,” you shake your head. “i mean it so stop giving me that look!” 

“what look?”

“that look, the one that tells me you want to bend me over your desk right now,” you huff, “i have a party to go to.” 

“but she was so cute in her little costume, wasn’t she? we make cute kids, i told you that the first time you let me-” 

“i should have left you at dinner that night.” 

“but you didn’t,” he says, grinning toothily, his long, pale fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt to tease at soft skin underneath. he’s got you already, and he knows it. “just like you ain’t gonna leave this office without another baby in you.”

꒰ LOLLYNOTE ꒱: waaaah, i hope you enjoyed this lil piece ! this was a bit selfshippy and totally self indulgent but i hope you love it anyways <3 thank you to @sleepygetou for letting me use her darling babie ocs keigo & haru too 🥹

[the-midnight-blooms]

from the artist's studio | cs

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader AU: historical au, joseon dynasty word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not to see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[twistedbloodstain]

marquis x assistant! reader: back when i was livin' for the hope of it all. [ i’d do anything to make you love me ]

plot: the one where he wants you to stop.

warning: obsessed marquis, baby trapping 2x, yandere/dark themes, 1k words

masterlist

the boy babbles at your knee while you're seated on a soft cushioned chair, although this boy is your boy. your baby boy who has learned to walk and talk for the past year but he isn’t just only your boy, he’s his too.

you sip your refreshment as your baby boy tries to climb on your lap, holding your knee in place to steady himself from falling on the ground, he calls out a sweet mummy for a shred of your attention but you can’t bring yourself to think properly at the moment when vincent’s in the room speaking with the doctor.

”mu..mmy!” your boy cries from the floor with a cherubic smile on his face.

you wanted to shush him from his calls so you could hear whatever vincent was saying to the doctor, vincent notices your silence to your son’s words taking a brief moment to look away from the conversation to inspect his small family. you meet his gaze and scowl at him. he glances at your boy again, quietly urging you to comfort the child. you scoff and simply stare at him.

you do it then, you’re the one that wanted him. you thought.

a small smirk curves his mouth and continues his conversation to the doctor. annoyedly, you call out for the nanny. aurene rushes in and greets you, you instruct her to take the boy for an afternoon nap even if it's noon. the boy yelps when he is raised to the nanny’s arms, once leveled to you eye to eye, he giggles reaching out to you expecting to be cradled by his mother but is sorely disappointed when he is slowly distanced away.

the small child begins to kick and scream at his nanny, wanting to be within the presence of his mother’s embrace, his cries begin to lower as he is brought out of the room. clingy like his father, you observe.

you don’t bother to look at vincent knowing he is somehow taken back at your coldness towards your son, you know he’ll talk about it later. massaging your temples, you pour a glass of whiskey for yourself whilst you wait for vincent to hurry up with his conversation.

several minutes later, the doctor takes his leave and you’re on your third class of whiskey. the door shuts and vincent walks towards you neither warmly or coldly. you don’t bother to comport yourself in his mood and sink back into the chair, abandoning the glass, you take the bottle and begin to chug it down your throat.

a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls back the bottle spilling a few drops over your dress, you look up and glare at him.

”that’s enough for today, my love.” he whispers.

“can i leave now?” you spit out.

”and go where?” he laughs. fucking asshole, you curse.

you don’t bother to reply and look away from him as you lower the bottle from your mouth, vincent tilts your chin up and smiles, too happy you observe.

”the doctor has brought good news for us today.” he chuckles as he begins to kneel in front of you.

ever since the gunshot incident, vincent has insisted on monthly check ups for your health and for your boy ever since he was born. if things had been different maybe you would’ve teased vincent about it, but it’s not. as far as you knew you were in perfect health and so was your son with him, unless he wanted to get rid of you and a disease was going to render you dead. you hope there is.

fool yourself all you can but you know what it is. vincent was gracious with showering his affections on you from expensive presents and to his bedroom. 

this is another child.

another chain to tie you down to him, to make you love him as much as he loves you. 

he grins as he cradles your stomach and rests his head on your lap.

”i pray for a girl. a princess to spoil and a companion for our boy. how lovely is that, my love?” 

you don’t reply and you feel a retching disgust building in your stomach, you try to take another swig of whiskey but is stopped again by vincent.

”you must stop drinking that, it can affect our child. you know that. our marriage has been blessed by another child, why waste something gifted by the angels?” he sternly questions.

”get off!” irritatedly, you shove him off you to the floor, throwing the bottle at the floor next to him a loud smash crashes through the room.

”i fucking hate you!” you scream at him as he gets up from the floor, his clothes damp from the whiskey.

“don’t i fucking know it.” he laughs at you fueling your rage. you try to grab another thing to throw at him but is abruptly halted when he grabs your arm and grips your chin.

”i am getting sick of your behavior, mon cher. i can stand your disgust of me but i beg you to never direct it at our sweetly blessed son.” he growls at your ear, you push away from him but is harshly pulled back, his grip tightening on you.

”then tell your kid it’s your fucking fault. tell him and your daughter that their mother can’t bear to fucking love them as a mother should because his father imprisoned her in this fucking place!” you scream at him, “you can put sons and daughters in this body all you can, call them children blessed by angels but i assure you sir. the only blessing you will ever have from them is the one from below and i will never love them because of you.” 

vincent is shocked by your words, never in your marriage had you spouted hateful words that were harsh to him and especially towards your own children. for a moment he doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t let you go either. you start to pull away slowly to catch your breath until vincent yanks you towards the nearest table.

”vincent, get off me right now.” you yell at him, smacking his shoulder as he hoists you on the table.

vincent grabs your chin harshly and looks at you sternly.

”heed my words, my love. you will never mutter those words ever again to anyone, especially to our children, do you hear? or i’ll treat you like the rest of them. bloody and dead.” he threatens, hiking your dress up to get a feel of your warm skin.

you shove his hands away from your thighs and slap him hard, this disorients him for a while.

”when you die before me, and you will. I’m gonna have a big smile on your face while i feed your ashes to your children. go to fucking hell, vincent.” 

vincent’s aggression begins to fade and is replaced by an empty slate, you thought he was going to leave you alone until he lurches back at you and claims your mouth, his hand returns to your thigh before you hear the unbuckling of his belt.

”our children, mon amour. ours. not even you can change that.” he chuckles before he’s greeted by another slap.

author’s note: spontaneous drop…blackout got me so riled up bc it detaches me from socmed and acads sb. this for the anonymous anon, hope u enjoy it :) anyways enjoy! don’t forget to like & reblog <33

[thesharktanksdriver]

Star covered hug booth (platonic)

Not canon but just some plane what if fun based on an ask from awhile back. Also sorry I’ve been inactive I’ve had some burnout as of late alongside starting second year university lol

Send me asks for characters you’d like to see hug Determination! Y/n

Masterlist for determination!

In life Nami had many things she has come to love.

For one she loved her mom Bellemere and sister Nojiko (as well as Genzo, a man who was the only father-figure she had in her life despite how she butted heads with him). Nami loved them wholeheartedly, loved them so deeply she sacrificed her childhood to ensure Bellemere’s sacrifice was not in vain.

She loved Cocoyashi. Loved the quaint island village she called home, the old beaten paths she’d chart on her first mock maps. Loved its people that despite having their pockets nicked by her small nimble hands still cared for her (only years later did she learn that many would let her get away with taking their wallets and would give Bellemere discounts for things she needed).

She loved tangerines and oranges. The smell of them lingered on her and in her dreams as the soft memories of that home on a cliffside played in her mind. The sweet taste that stuck to her tongue, the white blossoms in the spring and the color that matched the sunsets that she would peer out at through windows.

She loved money, she felt more secure with it after the years of barely scraping by and being extorted. Liked being able to provide for herself things that seemed more like a childish dream rather than a reality. Nami liked buying clothes, jewels, supplies and things for everyone on board even if they had not noticed. She also used it as a way to tie people to her, by having a “debt” it meant that they would not leave her (even if in her mind she knows they won’t).

And most of all Nami loved her crew.

Nami loved the idiot she called a captain. Dressed in flip flops and his raggedy straw hat sitting like a crown atop messy raven hair along with a stretched out smile across his face.

loved the moss haired swordsman without a sense of direction. How loyalty ran through his blood and his unwavering spirit in spite of the situations they ended up in.

Loved the blond haired cook who went out of his way to feed the crew with a grin. A cigarette hung limply on his lips whilst he handed off Hand made drinks specially catered to individual tastes.

Loved the long nosed cowardly sniper who she leant on for support as one of the only sane ones left on this crew. Their shared dry remarks on ridiculous situations before laughter replaced it.

Loved the blue nosed little doctor that plastered wounds with bandaids with their Jolly Roger. His bursts of bashfulness at being told he did a good job and his love of all things pink and sweet.

Loved the calm and cool historian who never failed to make her feel appreciated. The woman who never asks about the nightmares (nor does Nami ask about her own) but instead silently comfort each other.

Loved the shipwright with flashy chains and a steel hard smile. The man who puts love into their vassal with each nail and board while making unconventional machines that make everyone else smile.

Loved the joke making skeleton with annoying questions but with the soul of a true musician. Ivory bones drifting along similarly ivory keys whilst the crew listened to his songs of old.

Loved the reserved yet hearty presence of the helmsman that helps her through her trauma of fish and scales. The way he uses graceful movements of his karate that’s used to water her tangerines before he splashes a nearby Luffy.

And finally Nami loved the starry-eyed storyteller of the crew. The cherub face of an old soul that has seen too much of the world and has yet to change. A child stuck to watch the world around them change, telling the stories lost to time and later their own mind.

Nami loved her crew.

Maybe that was a bit of an understatement, but the point still stands.

…..but god did she sometimes loath their spending habits which leads her to this situation now.

As the only person on this damn boat with any Handle on money (besides Sanji when he’s not head over heels) she can’t help but want to bash her head in. Because along with being the navigator she handles the money, but evidently that didn’t matter to her stupid (affectionate) crew mates.

No Luffy you can’t buy 5 tons of meat just because your hungry.

No Zoro you can’t buy an oceans worth of booze because you feel like it.

No Sanji you can’t just buy every woman in a crowd a necklace because their “angels sent by heaven”.

No Ussop you can’t just buy a bunch of random supplies for your bombs half that stuff doesn’t make sense.

No chopper you can’t stalk up on cotton candy…the medical supplies is allowed though knowing this crew.

No Robin you can’t have another library on board when our room is already stacked from top to bottom in books.

No Franky for the love of god please stop buying supplies for robots we already have enough of them.

No Brook you don’t need a glass piano we already have 3 different pianos on the sunny.

No jimbe…actually no Jimbe your good because you're actually an responsible adult…wait why do you have so many Hawaii shirts-

And finally you. The only person on this crew who sticks to the budget but never actually buys anything for themself. Honestly she’d be happy if you went over budget and got yourself something, but she knows that’ll happen when Luffy becomes a vegetarian.

Nami loves her crew but god does that seem to screw her over.

They barely had enough to afford supplies at the next port, and though stealing wasn’t off the table laying low would be nice. Especially since her idiot of a captain just had to make a ruckus recently and have a good portion of the marines on their tail.

She’d really like to avoid another jailbreak.

So with that in mind she needed cash quickly.

And with that formed various schemes and ideas.

Form a mlm? Nah too much time to invest in.

Rob a bank? Too much attention.

Form a big distraction and then rob people blind? Shed and most of the crew would avoid doing that to civilians if possible.

And with all those x’d out ideas in mind she finally came to one that seemed plausible.

Somehow you had gained the friendship of many people over your many years of living. From almost all the warlords to Yonko’s and even admirals.

And knowing this Nami’s mind started a scheme. One that left her conflicted.

Because as much as their finances needed it, she wasn’t alright if it made you uncomfortable.

===

It’s partially halfway to their next destination that Nami sits herself next to you whilst you watch the waves. They lapped over one another, folding into the endless blue complimented by bubbling white foam. The sight never seemed to grow old to your eyes, even after so many years of watching the same sight once more as the day continued in its mellowness.

Normally someone of the crew would come to join you so it’s not too surprising when Nami joins.

But what is surprising is when she speaks up instead of continuing in sweet silence.

“We’re low on funds and I had an idea” she starts slowly, she picks beneath her nails, a nervous habit of hers. You noticed it quite easily, for as much as Nami wanted to look like she’s calm and in control you’d alway noticed the cracks in her resolve. It’s what you respected about her. The way she always tried to act like a pillar for others to lean on even when she was as brittle and scared as everyone else.

“Sure thing” you say, still looking out towards the waves.

“But you didn’t-“

“Nami I trust you.”

You think that for a moment that breaks her, shattering her heart into thousands of tiny pieces. Though that should hardly be surprising to her, because of course you trusted her. She was your navigator, your friend. You had every reason to, yet still it resonates within her deeply.

“You didn’t even hear what it was” her tone is slightly chiding, yet lingering fear still makes itself known despite your previous comment. “I had the idea for a hug booth…you know so many people who’d go to the end of the earth for you” she seems slightly uncomfortable saying this, as if slightly upset at herself.

“Yeah sure thing.” You say once more.

Instead of silence though you're met by her ocher brown eyes.

Nami places her hands gently on your shoulders, getting down on a knee to look you in the eye on your level. She looks for apprehension, yet finds none.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” She asks this with a tone that indicates how serious she is “if you're not that’s fine and I can think of something else. But I need to know if you're ok with this.”.

She watches a smile cross your face, small hands that were soft yet should be weathered over the years and years you’d been alive gently cupping her cheeks. You’d done this before to ground her, those nights filled with nightmares of Arlong that left her crying and grasping for anything to hold. The ones where she’d desperately want to curl up and disappear into herself, the ones where she'd look to her shoulder and still see the tattoo beneath the cover up.

It was a gesture of sincerity.

“I’m alright with it, Nami.”

Your eyes sparkle.

“I would’ve said I wasn’t if I was. Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing who shows up! Plus it’ll be nice to see some old friends again”

At that Nami nods, a shaky breath leaving her as she stands back up. She swallows down the last bit of fear and anxiety about pushing you to do something that would make you uncomfortable.

And then her game face quickly takes over.

Her head snaps towards Usopp and Franky’s direction.

“Get to work on advertisements and a booth pronto. You’ll get a bigger cut in the budget I’ve set”

===

On the grand line there was a small island that was considered an odd outlier to that of many other islands.

The island of “plote devi’cee” was one that served as a neutral ground for both marines and pirates alike. It started decades ago due to a legend, a daughter of a marine falling in love with a pirate. The meeting of the boyfriend and dad didn’t go well as expected, the boyfriend ended up dead as did the dad which left the girl heartbroken and supposedly cursing the island.

So long as pirates or marines stepped foot on its soil no fights could happen.

Lest they suffer like the poor fools all those years ago who had their ships decimated via sea kings and such bad weather that the ship capsized.

This is important due to the fact that it was the perfect place to set up shop.

You’d been to this place a few times before, so when mentioning it to Nami for this money making scheme it seemed like the only logical place it could work.

With the pamphlets handed out via news birds and your crows they’d inevitably end up at Marineford. So better to be on neutral territory for both marine and pirates without having the operation busted.

So with that in mind and the sunny docked Nami took quickly to setting up shop.

The small booth Franky constructed stood proud and strong atop a small hill just outside the village of the island. Just far enough out of the way as to not disturb their peaceful lives as you sat in your booth waiting. Drapes of cloth created a small doorway and privacy for you and the future customers. Mostly since you’d known this would likely get emotional for more than a few people (perhaps even yourself). Now thinking about it though, it seemed more like a tent and booth but “y/n’s hug booth” was definitely more of a zinger.

Just outside holding a large set of jars were Sanji and Zoro, your “guards” and debt collectors for Nami. Behind your stand was Robin sitting in a small sun chair. An ear inside the booth to listen for the secret sign of you being uncomfortable, 3 taps on the wood and then it would be the signal for zoro and Sanji to drag off whoever was inside.

It wasn’t fully fool proof but it was enough for you to be comfortable enough.

And so you wait.

But it seems not for long as you hear the exasperated murmur of Nami not far away from the booth.

“That’s a lot of ships”.

Seems like the hugging shall begin.

Boa Hancock

Before even seeing the curtain open, you hear Sanji’s commotion of “my eyes have been blessed by a goddess-“ before a subsequent thwack sound resonating in the air. You're not sure who hit Sanj whether From Zoro, Nami or Boa herself but the curtain opens and there enters the empress of the Amazon Lily herself.

The proclaimed most beautiful woman in the world and snake princess warlord.

She sits down, posed and perfect on the small stool. Long legs crossed as you watch the apathy from her face fade at now being in private with you.

It’s odd for you to see her public persona of uncaring, cruel and selfish. Not when you know at heart she’s a girl who’s been victim to the most vicious of cruelties. A woman who longs to be kind yet cannot face being hurt once more, someone who’d rather push those closest away if it ensured their safety.

It’s why you smile when a soft expression covers her face.

“Sorry if Sanji gave you trouble, he’s a massive flirt…and a simp. He means well though, just takes a bit far sometimes” you say a little exasperated as you rub the back of your neck. She gives a small chuckle, the sound of it is soft and pretty like wind chimes and birdsong.

“He’s a man, I’ve dealt with plenty worse.” It comes off as slightly mocking towards the blond, though you’d let it slide knowing her experience with men…plus as much as you loved Sanji he was a bit over the top “besides, I came here to see you.”.

“I must be lucky then. Having been graced with the presence of an empress” the tone is accented by a slight giggle. One that she mirrors with a true smile, one not marred by fakeness or lies, just genuine.

“It’s…it’s good to see you again”

“It’s good to see you too Hancock”

You open your arms, and she reaches forwards to warp you in her own.

Her hug is stiff at first, as if she had not felt the comfort of arms holding her in a very long time and still trying to uphold her mask of stone cold empress. But much like her mask, it cracks and breaks.

What once was stiff arms much like when she petrified people circled around you soon melts.

She pulls you closer, resting her head atop your shoulder as she just holds you and you hold her.

The floral scent of the Amazon lily creates a pleasant smell that wafts within the tent. Roses, peonies, lilacs and of course Lillie’s tickle your nose. It’s much different from your scent of sea salt and dust covered books.

It takes a moment but you quickly begin to hear soft sobs leave her. Tears trailing down and making your shoulder dampen.

You don’t mind.

You just pat her head as gently as you can.

Once more Boa Hancock does not feel like a heartless warlord nor a scared little girl huddled in a cell.

Boa was just Boa.

She was more than the beauty, the power or the brand on her back.

She was more than just her body.

And that’s more priceless than anything she could ever imagine.

“Thank you” her voice is quiet and gentle, something few people would ever have the luxury of hearing.

“No need to thank me Boa.”

To her, your hug signifies a genuine love. One not of romance that clouds the eyes of her fanatic nor of lust that clouds the eyes of men. Your love was Just the love of a friend.

The love of the person behind her facade.

You see her gentle heart and hold it with equal gentle hands.

“You can always turn to me if you need it, can always use my shoulder to cry on. It doesn’t make you weak, it only makes you stronger”

Mihawk Dracule

His appearance at the booth is as cryptic and abrupt just as his appearance of his boat on the sea is.

It’s abrupt.

Expected.

And to everyone but you (and maybe Zoro) it’s an unpleasant surprise.

One that should be bound for bloodshed yet creates a certain tinge of happiness as he closes the curtains behind him and sits down on the small chair facing you.

Yoru being leant against the chair.

A small and subtle sign that he feels at ease with you.

…or at least didn’t see you as a threat. (It was hard to tell with him)

“It’s good to see you again Mihawk, how has the traveling been?” You say this while leaning against your palm that rested on the stand.

Golden ringed eyes stare at you, for a moment you can distinguish a crinkle of affection.

“They’ve been monotonous as usual. Overzealous fools who think they can challenge me”

“An, so like zoro?”

He chuckles at that, distantly outside the tent you hear a distinct “Oi!” Before the sounds of Sanji kicking him. Their bickering fades into the background as Nami presumably dragged them away.

Mihawk leans over, and suddenly you're enveloped in his arms. It’s perhaps a bit unexpected, though with Mihawk things were always a gamble. You half anticipated for him to leave without a hug, but seeing that he hadn’t made you all the more happier.

Mihawk's hug feels secure and protective, as if he were a shield to the rest of the world and its hardships.

Hands that have seen endless fighting and held the hilt of blood a rusted sword hold you.

His hold is not gentle but it is perhaps the softest Mihawk could ever be.

And that’s ok.

Because in his hold it feels as if you're safe.

That he would take on the world to ensure that even when you’d left his arms you’d never have to worry.

And while that’s a far off dream, knowing Mihawk he’d try.

And that’s perhaps the most comforting thought behind it all.

Mihawk would try for you if you’d ask.

If you’d ask, you could have stayed at his abode.

If you’d asked he would do all that he could to ensure you’d never have to die and reappear again.

But he’d only do that if you’d ask.

He didn’t make that decision for you.

Didn’t decide that his judgment was better than yours and impede on your ability to make decisions.

He might have disagreed with some of your decisions but he respected you to make them.

And even more so, he respected you even if he was wrong.

He would never admit to it, but in those few moments you’d proven him wrong a certain pride shone in eagle eyes.

A certain uplift of the corner of his mouth.

“The humandrills miss you…I have a room open if you’d ever require it” it’s said quietly, like a secret exchanged beneath candlelight. It’s a valuable moment, it reminds you of that thing that zoro had said.

“A wound on the back is a swordsman’s shame”

Vulnerability was not something easily handed out by swordsmen, especially not one like Mihawk. A weakness, a so-called wound on his back or in this case his heart. It’s not something to be taken lightly. But luckily you know this well.

“I’d like that”

His mouth twitches, sloping upwards ever so slightly.

To him the hug you give is a moment where he can momentarily be at ease and feel as if he had a goal to accomplish.

Throughout aimless travel he tries to find his match yet all that come to him are disappointments. Battle after battle of people not being able to even land a single blow on him. It’s a constant that leaves him bitter and resigned as he’d toll away in his castle alone.

But with you in arms that carry the burden of being the best he finds himself with a mission that seems ever so slightly more achievable.

He could protect you as best he could.

Though that is an equally daunting task considering your penchant for death, it feels more feasible so long as you remain in his hold.

Small arms that are wrapped around his neck mean no harm.

He has no use in being on edge, not when you’d barely had the will to ever pick up a blade. Even when your life depended on it.

For a short moment the bloodthirsty marine hunter feels at ease.

You do not see him smile but you can feel the warmth he exudes when his hand cards through your hair.

Marco

The cries of “cheater!” And “we agreed that everyone else would get a head start!” Ring out from the very familiar voices of whitebeard’s division commanders outside the tent as an even more familiar voice yells out to them “early bird gets the worm” with an amused chuckle.

And it’s there that the small tent is lit up by flames of cyan blue and brilliant gold. Still in his partial zoan form his clawed feet press against the ground as tail feathers of gold trail behind him like a burning chain.

Flames flicker in a calm heat, letting small pops of sparks almost as if they were mini-fireworks.

A lazy smile is across his face as he sits leisurely across from you.

“Long time no see Marco, how’s the family?”

He chuckles, pointing his thumb to the now closed curtain door as the slightly muffled sounds of complaints just outside answer the question. “Licking their wounds but for the most part good.” There’s an audible “hey!” Once more behind the curtain which makes you chuckle in turn. But eventually the chuckles settle down into silence.

And for a moment besides the murmurs outside there’s a warm silence punctuated by the soft crackles of flame.

Warm blue and soft gold.

Flames that are simultaneously soft as feathers as they wrap around you. Cocooning you in their warm nest of a grasp, like a mother bird swaddling an egg. You could go on and on with the bird analogies, but none could ever describe the sense of comforting warmth that covers your heart in its inferno.

“We’ve all missed you”

The fire burns like a campfire on your heart. The soft oozy scent and taste of s’mores as the muffled laughs of friends and family. The sweetness of chocolate, slightly charred marshmallow and crumbly graham-cracker seem to appear like phantoms on your tongue.

“Pops checks the bounties for you”

A father’s warm hand places itself on your shoulder as the two of you sit by the fireplace. The fireplace sets the blaze on your heart to that of a warmer intensity. Frost presses against the nearby window and nearby boots, hats and mittens let snow melt into them. The chill of winter easing away at the warmth of home and the presence of a man who swore to love and protect you.

“Izou has been arranging for some old spare kimonos of his to be given to you”

A mothers warm hands cup your cheeks as a tender kiss is placed atop your forehead, red phantom lipstick staining your flesh as its kindness traveled to your burning heart. A light giggle echoes from rose lips, a giggle escaping your own as tears pinch at the edges of your eyes at her goodbye.

“Ace, Thatch, and I have been keeping track of your guys’s adventures”

The hearth of your heart feels the burn of the sun clench around it like a firm hug. Beneath a sun hat you pick at a freshly tended garden, soil pooling beneath your hands as you pat it down firmly. Roots tangle beneath the ground, red strawberries hanging low and ripe for the picking as they are placed in a wicker basket. brother places a glass on the ground beside you, cool lemonade fresh on your patched tongue and the bittersweet of it lingering as his blurred face is obscured by the shadow of his own hat.

Love burns you to the core. It’s heat scorching a heart that should be dead and reigniting its will to keep moving.

You melt into the cool flames of blue and gold.

Your tears don’t put it out but instead makes it wrap more securely around you.

[guppybibi]

𖦹 pairing: Dad!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

𖦹 content: Crack & fluff, not proofread, ooc i think, d/n = daughters name, mild cursing

𖦹 notes: more self indulgent fics, this is bad lmao

And the world’s best husband who constantly makes his wife worried sick, award goes to Simon Riley! May we get a round of applause to commend this man? No? Alright, I’ll see myself out then. Hey, he doesn’t do it intentionally (most of the time). You gotta live a little, it’s not like he’s doing anything reckless. Oh but who can blame your heart when it dropped to the pits of your stomach upon seeing Simon carry your cherubic little toddler on one hand? He’s balancing her there like she’s a trained cheerleader! Maybe in the future, but she could barely even balance her own bobble head! Sure you may have been a teensy weensy bit over dramatic about it but accidents should be prevented as much as possible.

“Darlin’ look it’s fine, she’s even giggling.” He says just a little bit too casually, referring to your daughter who’s currently enjoying the little circus act they were performing. “Nope, put her down right this instant.” You command, and if Simon was scared of one thing it’d surely be you when you're angry. Guns and weapons would never compare to the fury of his wife. With a huff from him and a whiny complaint from your daughter, he sets her down onto the grassy yard.

“Oh what a killjoy, mama..” She puffs up her rosy cheeks, crossing her arms as she feigns hurt. You chuckle, looking up at Simon before speaking. “She’s got your accent. The rosy cheeks too.” You comment, lowering your head down to see your daughter avoiding eye contact with you as she acted offended.

"Which cheeks-”

“Nope, don't continue that sentence.” You could practically hear the way his lips formed a pout, copying your daughter. Pathetic, who knew a burly military man could get so soft for his little girl? “Awh come on eh? Don't be such a killjoy ‘luv.” He teases, using the same tone his little girl used.

Or maybe that one time Simon was blasting music the loudest the speaker could handle, it had a few curses and swear words here and there but his baby girl wouldn't pick up on it. He doubts she's even listening to daddy’s ‘bad’ music taste, so he's in the safe zone for sure!

Oh boy was he wrong…It was one of those days, you two were sharing chores—with you washing the dishes while he vacuumed around the house and hummed along to the song playing. While D/N was happily stacking her ABC blocks, she was silently listening to the song her daddy was playing. Even mumbling some of the parts since her daddy keeps putting this certain song on repeat. She barely knew the alphabet to begin with so she wouldn't even pick up on the words on the song, right?

“Mama!” She calls out, bringing her empty baby bottle as she signals for more milk. “Oh yes baby, I’ll fill your bottle right after I finish these.” You respond gently, rinsing the soapy suds away. “No, now bitch!” And with those words alone it felt like the toddler broke the sound barrier, silence filling the Riley’s usually noisy home when Simon slowly turned off the speaker. You and Simon share a look that plainly said “What the fuck.”, the man set the vacuum aside as it was time for another parenting lesson.

“Kiddo, that's no way to speak to your mum.” He lectures gently, taking her feelings into consideration. “Mama told you she’ll help you after, right? It's bad to call her names, mama sacrificed a lot for you.”

"But-” “No buts, kiddo. Your mum didn't spend 7 hours pushing you out and I didn't have to watch her scream out in pain like a demon just for you to curse at her.” Simon hoped he wasn't too harsh with his child, knowing they're tiny hearts are pretty fragile at this age. But he wasn't going to let it just slide, he watched his baby girl approach her mother and apologize. A smile gracing his face when he sees you forgive her and place a delicate kiss on her chubby cheek, he goes up to you once he sees the child take off to play in the living room.

“I think we should start considering the swear jar now.” You comment, placing a hand on your hip. “Definitely.”

“No more playing songs with any swear words from now on, Simon.” “Yes ma’am.”

[lemon-russ]

The Unfathomable Burden Of Premonition

I had cursed thoughts and now curse them unto you :') Short and sad. (Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers)

CW: Sad, mentions of death

Ao3

Taglist: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye

Song: For the widows in paradise for the fatherless in ypsilanti - Sufjan Stevens

Even if I come back, even if I die Is there some idea to replace my life? Like a father to impress Like a mother's mourning dress If you ever make a mess, I'll do anything for you

Sanguinius paced the elegant nursery.

The tiny, cherub like form of his infant son lay peacefully in his bassinet, a cradle of gold bars and red silks. One of his sons- the 7 foot tall astartes variety, not to be confused- had created the bed for his newest brother of sorts when Sanguinius announced that their Legion Mother was with child. They had all been so excited, and excited more when the baby was born with two little feathered wings, like Sanguinius himself.

The Greatest Angel, they jokingly called his son, playing off Sanguinius’ own moniker of The Great Angel.

He stepped to the bassinet's side once more, carefully leaning over and stroking the chubby cheek of his sleeping child. Little wings splayed, cherub-like cheeks and golden curls so much like his own. The only thing he'd gotten from the Legion Mother was his eyes.

Sanguinius wondered how else his son would be like him. Would he be creative? Empathetic and kind? Would he be wracked with the deep, gnawing rage Sanguinius had to constantly subdue? Or worse, would his dreams be plauged with visions of things yet come to pass? Things the Angel now grew increasingly concerned were going to happen, instead of his normal omens of things that may or may not.

No, these new dreams were far too specific. No vauge metaphor, no blurry half remembered shapes. A clear, defined vision of his brother, the warmaster himself, standing over Sanguinius’ corpse.

Would he see his sons first birthday, he wondered. He knelt beside the cradle, laying his arms and head on the side so he could watch the tiny movement of the baby's belly as he breathed.

His wife had explained many of her homeland traditions for children, and a first birthday was a large celebration. She already was planning for it, and their child was only a month old.

He gently pet his son's gold curls. Maybe the vision of his death happens centuries from now. Maybe his son will become a strong, grown man before he is forced to handle his father's demise. Or maybe it happens soon, and he misses all the milestones a baby goes through as they to navigate their new bodies and the world around them.

When his wife told him she was pregnant, one of his first thoughts was how excited he was to have someone to fly with- if the child had wings, she had told him with a gentle smile. But of course his child would have wings, he had told her, they will be more of an angel than he ever had been. He wouldn't have been surprised if they'd have come out with a golden halo of light to match.

Flying lessons. He hoped he got to give his son flying lessons someday. It had been trial and error for him. A lot of jumping off things and not quite making it. His primarch durability helped, but they didn't know the extent that his son inherited that resilience. If he couldn't teach him the tricks to taking off and landing, would he have to repeat Sanguinius’ methods? He imagined the little cherub flinging himself off a tall rock, flapping his wings and crashing to the sands. A smile crossed the Great Angel’s face at the thought of the little boy finally staying in the air for a moment before falling once more. He'd be so excited, just like the first time Sanguinius had managed to flap mid air.

He'd write a guide, he thought. Just in case. A manual to flying, assuming his son had similar wings to his own. Then he could at least have guidance while his poor mother watched him careen himself off of cliffs.

He swallowed back a growing lump in his throat, reminding himself he had no idea if he'd be gone sooner or later. It was just as likely that he expirenced all the wonders and tribulations of fatherhood as not, he lied to himself. The growing bookshelf of handwritten tomes in the corner of the nursery were just safeguards.

There was a good chance his son would never need to sit by the little library and read his father's notes on dealing with a red thirst, should he inherit it. Hardly a chance the boy would borrow a leatherbound tome from the Legion Mother's desk, then sit in his fathers old office, a tear stained journal page open, reading about his father meticulously sculpting a rose from gold to present to his wife as his son painted his mother a picture of the flower for her birthday.

A tear fell to the bed, discoloring the deep red silks of the baby's sheets. Sanguinius sighed, dabbing his eyes and composing himself. He gently leaned in an kissed the infant's tiny forehead before crossing the elaborately decorated nursery and sitting back at the little writing table he'd brought in. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before picking his pen up once more and returning to the almost filled pages of another leatherbound book. What had he wanted to write? Ah, yes- he thought, as he titled the top of the page “Lessons in flying”.

Sanguinius turned back a moment, eyeing the strewn toys of the nursery. The walls were decorated in the finest gifts his genesons had been showering the child with. Many paintings depicting a cherub in golden light. One statue was a recreation of the baby in his fathers arms, moments after being born. A large, hand sewn plush bear sat in a corner, guarding the babe from bad dreams.

There was very little chance his son would need these notes and lessons and journals, he once again lied to himself. He should be relaxing, maybe spoiling his wife, maybe trying to get his own neglected work done. He watched the baby breathe those tiny, fluttering breaths a moment more before turning back to his writing.

Just in case. He will write everything his son may need to ask a father. Just in case.

[nrhshm]

i want a fic of ace being a father to the little girl after she’s born 🥺🩷 i know he’d be the best dad in the world. i want it to be the FLUFFIEST fic on the planet (no pressure though <3)

Why hello there! My pleasure!!👋

. S/o is g/n

. Spoiler free

. Sfw

Ace as Father to his 4 year old Child (Imagine)

"Rock paper SCISSORS!" The two competitors glance at their significantly different hands.

"Haha!!! I win!!!" The little girl squeals in glee, as her defeated father fake-groans in defeat. He knows he can win the round quite easily, but would his heart bear seeing his 4 year old's droopy face after that? No way!!

Ace has devoted his entire life to keep his little cherub happy, even at the smallest moments he is around with her. To him, this little creature made everything he had valued, worthless, yet has shed it's light on a new purpose: To see her toothy chubby smile every. Single. Day.

"I win Papa! You're a dinosaur now!" She jumps in pure anticipation, knowing that her father had lost the bet.

The bet states that the loser of Rock Paper Scissors has to carry the winner around the ship until Thatch calls for dinner, which should be in... two hours!

"Upsies!!" She makes grabby gestures with her hands as Ace bends down to lift her up on his back. Almost immediately, she wraps her short, tiny hands around her father's neck.

"What are the odds??" Jozu gasps with heavy exaggeration. "I thought Ace would win!!"

"I wouldn't dare to imagine it. That is just, weird." Izo immediately replies. "Besides, y/n would rain hellfire on all of us, if such thing happens." Everyone deadpans at the thought of your furious form.

"Shhhh! She shouldn't know about this!! We're supposed to be sleeping!" Ace exclaims. (D/n)'s large black eyes, follow her dad's gestures, and tries to mimic them. "shhh!!"

Happy baby, happy father. You can clearly see Ace's wide smile whenever his daughter is around. Even if it involves going without his usual afternoon snacks, just to make her happy earning this victory, he'll do it with no hesitation.

Immediately after that, The whitebeard commander secures his daughter on his back, and goes around playfully attacking his other crew members.

"Dinosaur goes RAWRRR!!" He immitates.

"Rawrrr" His firefly cheers with a fist in the air.

You, on the other hand, watch the scene with an endearing smile. The urge to scold them has been far gone. Well, how can you?! When such a team of utter cuteness is doing the ship wonders of positivity. So far, Ace has been a great father to your child, considering how reluctant he was to have one. They both share the same fiery energy, and have the same gleeful smile that lights up your world.

You shake your head with a smile of your own. Oh, how lucky have you gotten...

[batchilla]

Chapter One - Till Death Do Us Part

Till death do us part. The words swim in Jason’s mind as he lays in bed beside you, the wedding band heavy on his finger, a once comforting weight now seeming to burn, as though the metal of your shared promise made manifest was burning the very flesh of his hand, stoked by a fire of guilt and worry. 

Till death do us part. 

Sometimes, he had wondered how he got so lucky, how you could be so foolish as to pick him. 

He was scared, he was broken, he had done terrible things. He didn’t deserve anyone as good as you. As kind. As … forgiving. He might have deserved you once - he had met you a lifetime ago, a bright eyed boy wonder still growing into his mantle as Robin, a teenage Jason Todd so sure he could change the world, because he was Robin, and Robin made him magic, a force for the better. Maybe that version of him deserved you. But that boy is long dead. 

Till death do us part. 

Except you hadn’t. He had died. You were parted. Yet when he came back, there you were. Reaching out a hand of love and understanding as soon as you knew who he (as the Red Hood) was. Batman - No, it was a personal, emotional call - Bruce. Bruce had called you in, because if anyone could help pull him out of the spiral he’d been in, you could. You did. You didn’t save him - no one person did. His family did, and he did. 

Till death do us part.

You were family, he’d realised. His rock. His best friend. A title that felt utterly shallow compared to what you were to him. Roy became his best friend… and you his world. His family. You were more than just his girlfriend… and after a proposal on the snowy grounds of Wayne manor on christmas morning, his fiance, and then his wife… Until the day the doctor confirmed your pregnancy, you had made up the whole of his world, which only grew when little Mary was born. 

Till death do us part. 

You’d always known the risks. Even when you were kids, when he was still Robin, rescuing you every few weeks when your mothers position as a judge got you in hot water, you had been aware of how much worse falling for him could make things for you, and you had fallen regardless.  You knew when you first held his hand and kissed his cheek, first been spotted by the Gotham paparazzi with a Wayne, first helped stitch him back together after a patrol gone wrong, you knew the risks. To him, and to you. You might be used against him. He might not come home one day. 

Till death do us part.

Jason turns to his side, watching you sleep. You looked so happy. So peaceful. You looked like you knew you were safe - and you were. He’d die again before anyone touched you. Either of you. 

He stands, slowly and quietly, so as not to wake you as he creeps down the hall to the nursery, where Mary lays sleeping. The room is glowing faintly green from the glow in the dark decals on the wall, and the unicorn nightlight by the bed illuminates her sleeping face. He doesn’t lift her out of the tiny, child size bed - she was a light sleeper, and given she was rather energetic, getting her to sleep again would be difficult, as tempting as it was to hold her in his arms, never to let go. 

He’d cried when you told him, and when he held her for the first time - and quite a few subsequent times. She had grown so much, and yet she was still so small. So small. A sad smile comes to Jason’s face. His little cherub… his baby girl… he’d never, ever forgive himself for what happened today.  

Till death do us part. You both had wanted this. He had wanted a family with you. In his dreams, Mary would be the first of at least three. Maybe when they were older they’d take up their own mantles - maybe they’d live normal lives. He’d adore them regardless. He’d watch his kids thrive as he didn’t get to until Bruce. He’d be the father he never had, loving and attentive, and thanks to his … previous extra legal activity and Bruce’s habit of spending his billions irresponsibly when it came to his kids, they’d want for nothing.  You’d move to a city a little safer for raising kids.  He’d retire the Red Hood when you both got older and you insisted, protesting, but secretly glad to finally be able to spend his evenings curled up by the fire with you. Maybe he’d write a book. Maybe he’d get a dog. There were a dozen maybes that were each as lovely as the last, but the only certainty he’d known for this beautiful future he’d dreamt up is you’d be at his side. 

Till death do us part, afterall. He’d meant his vow, just as you had meant yours.

Today, that had changed. Roman Sionis had changed it. It had been a standard patrol, when a man in a dark suit approached. Best Jason could tell, which really meant the best Oracle could tell, was the man was a PI, a civilian. That plausible deniability on whether or not he truly understood who exactly had paid him was the only reason he was still breathing. It had been a close call. 

The man had handed Jason an envelope, inside it a blurry photograph. 

It was you, sitting near the window of the penthouse apartment Bruce had given Jason and you as a wedding gift, feeding Mary. A message scrawled in black ink on the back lists your name, your place of work, and a musing that it would be a terrible thing for an example to be made out of a pair of innocents if the Red Hood couldn’t stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

Jason still wanted that life. Roman Sionis had made it clear it could never be. 

He’d kill him. Code be damned, no one threatens his wife and child. 

But that would take time, time where you and Mary would be in danger. 

 You had known the risks, on one level. Both of you had. But when it became real, no longer theoretical…

Staring down at his sleeping daughter, Jason makes a choice.

The next morning when he drops Mary off with Alfred at the manor, so he knows she’s safe, and so that you too can properly talk, without needing to worry about her while you have what is surely to be the worst morning of either of your lives. “Thrilled as I am to see the young miss,” Alfred says, taking the bottle bag, Diaper bag, stroller, cuddly robin toy and the child that bears his mothers name, handling the sudden handoff with deft proficiency, “Might I suggest master todd that if you and Ms Todd wish for alone time you kindly call ahead?” On another day he might have laughed, but not today. 

His shoulders slump ever so slightly, and he shakes his head. “Not exactly that kind of alone time Pennyworth.”

Seeing the look on Jason's face, Alfred quickly hands little Mary off to a passing Cass, ushering Jason into the kitchen and pressing a cup of tea into his hands. “What’s happened lad?” It rushes out of him like word vomit, like bile forcing its way up his throat as he recounts it all. 

The photo. Roman. The threat. As long as you are with him, as long as he is in Mary’s life, as long as Roman Sionis is alive, you can never be safe. How he needs to divorce you, and how he needs Bruce’s help, Barbra's help, hell, Dick’s help, everyone's help, to make the story convincing enough for Roman, and how he has no idea how the fuck he’s going to tell you. 

He hopes desperately to be scolded that he’s being dramatic. For Alfred to say something pompous about how he’d be a fool to do this. The way Alfred instead rises from his seat at the table and pulls him into a hug, is the final nail in the coffin for that hope, as Jason cries into his grandfather’s shoulder. 

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Daddy’s New Hair Style.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i actually really like harrys buzz cut era, it makes him look more macho in my opinion 🤷‍♀️

word count - 1.7k

in which, your fiancé returns home one afternoon, shocking both you and your son milo when he appears to be sporting a new hair cut, neither of you seemed to be prepared for.

In the cozy embrace of your London home, you find yourself nestled on the sofa, a soft blanket enveloping you and your precious two-year-old son, Milo.

The room is dimly lit, creating a tranquil ambiance as you cradle him in your arms.

Milo, having fallen asleep while breastfeeding, (his afternoon snack.) radiates an innocent calmness, his tiny breaths rhythmic and soothing.

The gentle hum of a TV show provides a subtle soundtrack to this tender moment. The muted glow from the screen casts a warm illumination on the living room, creating a serene atmosphere.

The characters on the show move through their scripted lives, but your attention is divided between the unfolding drama and the cherubic face of your slumbering child.

A cup of tea, steam curling upwards, rests precariously on the arm of the couch, a momentary escape forgotten in the bliss of maternal connection.

The aroma wafts through the air, adding another layer of comfort to the scene. The liquid within holds the promise of warmth and solace, a silent companion in the quietude of this shared repose.

His tousled hair (much like his fathers.) and cherubic features evoke a sense of wonder and fragility, a reminder of the preciousness of these fleeting moments.

The air is filled with a hushed lullaby, a fusion of Milo's delicate breaths, the ambient sounds of the TV, and the distant chirping of birds outside the window.

The subtle creak of the front door signals your fiancés arrival, and although your back is turned, you instantly recognize the familiar sound.

The atmosphere in the room shifts with anticipation as his footsteps echo through the entrance hall, a symphony of his return. The television's hushed murmur fades into the background, overshadowed by the promise of his presence.

"M’home!" Harry's voice, warm and resonant, fills the air with an infectious energy. Even before laying eyes on him, you can sense the genuine joy in his greeting, a sentiment that bridges the physical gap between you.

As he steps further into the living room, the scent of the outside world clings to him – a mixture of the crisp outdoors and the subtle musk of his cologne. It's a scent that has become synonymous with comfort and familiarity, a sensory reminder of the life you share.

The sound of his keys finding their place on the table, a routine symphony that accompanies his homecoming, adds to the rhythmic cadence of the moment. The soft thud of his jacket being hung up, a tactile cue that he is settling in, marks the transition from the outside world to the intimate haven you've created together.

The shuffle of his footsteps pauses briefly, creating a suspended moment where time seems to hold its breath. In the pregnant silence, you can almost hear the smile in his voice as he calls out again,

"Where's m’favorite people?" The endearment, spoken with a familiarity that comes from shared history, melts away any residual tension in the room.

As you turn to face Harry, a reflexive smile plays on your lips, ready to greet him after the day apart.

However, your expression freezes, and your eyes widen in surprise as they fall upon his head. The shock sets in when you realise that the familiar cascade of curls that once adorned his head has been replaced by a sleek buzz cut.

Your mouth hangs open in astonishment, a reaction born from the unexpected transformation.

Your gaze remains fixed on his shorn head, and a kaleidoscope of emotions dances in your eyes – surprise, confusion, and a touch of nostalgia for the familiar texture of his hair.

Harry, oblivious to your internal turmoil, wears a grin that carries a hint of mischief. His eyes twinkle with the satisfaction of a well-kept secret, and he revels in the delayed reaction playing out on your face.

The silence between you becomes palpable, echoing with the unspoken question of whether you'll recover from the unexpected twist.

Harry settles onto the sofa beside you, a tender smile gracing his face as he observes his slumbering son cradled in your arms. The rhythmic motion of his hand, gently rubbing up and down the little one's back, is a silent lullaby that adds to the serenity of the moment.

The room is hushed, filled only with the soft sounds of your child's breathing and the muffled ambiance from the TV in the background.

As you glance at Harry, your eyes inadvertently catch a glimpse of his newly shorn hair. The sight triggers a wave of emotions within you, and the words that could express your thoughts seem to elude you. Uncertain of how to navigate this uncharted territory, a lump forms in your throat, and an overwhelming surge of emotion finds release through tears.

"M’love, s’wrong?" he inquires gently, his voice a soothing balm.

You glance up at him, your shoulders shrugging in a gesture of uncertainty.

"I just... I miss your curls," you admit, your voice catching slightly as you try to articulate the complex mix of emotions swirling within.

A sympathetic understanding softens Harry's eyes as he takes in your words.

"M’didn't think it would hit y’this hard. S’just hair," he says with a wistful smile, attempting to downplay the significance of the change.

You nod, a half-hearted smile forming on your lips.

"I know, it's just... it's going to take some getting used to," you confess, the vulnerability of the moment hanging in the air.

Without another word, Harry wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. His touch is a silent reassurance that transcends words.

"Change can be a bit overwhelming, huh?" he muses, his lips brushing against the top of your head in a gentle kiss.

You nod again, finding solace in the warmth of his embrace.

"Yeah, it's just that your curls were... a part of you. It's like I need to recalibrate my mental image," you explain, your words a hesitant attempt to convey the intricacies of your feelings.

Harry chuckles softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

"Fair enough. M’guess I should ‘ave warned y’about t’big reveal," he admits, a playful glint in his eyes.

A light chuckle escapes your lips, and you nuzzle into his shoulder.

"Maybe just a heads-up next time," you suggest, the tension dissipating as humour finds its way into the conversation.

He nods, his hand now gently playing with your hair.

"Got it. And hey, it's still me, curls or no curls," he reassures, his voice a comforting anchor in the midst of change.

Milo, roused by the comforting familiarity of his father's voice, stirs on your lap. His sleepy eyes flutter open, and with a drowsy curiosity, he turns his gaze towards the source of that familiar sound.

Upon seeing Harry, a small, delighted smile graces Milo's face. The connection between father and son transcends words, and with newfound energy, the two-year-old wriggles on your lap. With determination that only a toddler possesses, he begins to crawl off your lap towards his father.

"Ey’ there, little champ," Harry greets, his voice a melodic blend of warmth and affection. He extends his arms, ready to receive Milo into his embrace. The room is now filled with the joyous energy of a family reuniting.

As Milo reaches Harry's waiting arms, the father-son reunion is marked by laughter and the soft patter of little feet against the living room floor.

Harry scoops Milo up, lifting him into the air with playful ease. The room is filled with the infectious laughter of a child delighted by the simple joy of being in his father's arms.

With a gleeful determination, he lifts his small hands, fingers outstretched, ready to engage in his usual ritual of playing with the curls at the back of his father's neck.

However, as his tiny fingers reach the intended destination, there's an unexpected void. Confusion clouds Milo's face, and a puzzled expression replaces the usual delight.

His fingers flitter through the air, searching for the familiar texture that has always greeted him during these tender moments.

When realisation strikes, a small whine escapes Milo's lips, a sound that echoes both disappointment and surprise. The absence of the once-present curls disrupts his routine, and with a spontaneous burst of emotion, he throws his head back, as if in protest against this unforeseen change.

Harry, caught off guard by Milo's reaction, looks down at his son with a mix of amusement and understanding.

He chuckles softly, his hands adjusting to accommodate Milo's newfound exploration.

"No more curls, buddy. Daddy's got a new look," he explains, trying to soothe Milo's evident dismay.

Yet, Milo remains unconvinced, his little face contorted in a blend of confusion and protest. His fingers continue to explore the unfamiliar terrain, perhaps hoping that the missing curls will magically reappear. The room is filled with the comical symphony of a toddler expressing discontent with the capricious nature of change.

His little face scrunches up in contemplation, and then, with the sincerity only a child can muster, he begins to babble excitedly about his own hair.

"Daddy, hair go bye-bye!" Milo exclaims, his words a delightful blend of toddler language and exuberance.

His tiny fingers point to his head, emphasising the absence of what was once there.

Harry, caught off guard by Milo's animated commentary on his own hair, joins in the toddler's excitement.

"S’right, buddy! Daddy got a new haircut. No more curls," he explains, his laughter mirroring the infectious joy radiating from Milo.

As Milo continues his animated monologue, his eyes shift towards you, seeking acknowledgment and perhaps wanting to share his newfound discovery.

With an enthusiastic gesture, he points at his head again and then looks at you as if to say, "See, Mommy?"

You respond with a warm smile, playing along with the adorable sincerity of the moment.

"Daddy looks great, doesn't he?" you chime in, your words laced with affection.

Just as you said those words, a thought immediately popped into your head and you snapped your gaze so it was locked onto your lovers.

“H?”

He hummed from where he was playing with his sons dummy, playfully taking it in and out of his little ones mouth making him laugh hysterically.

When he looked at you for a brief second, you eyebrows were raised.

“Your curls better be back before the wedding.”

[mins-fins]

ANGEL EYES. — [L.MH] [PREVIEW]

❝ sometimes, it feels as if mark lee is your guardian angel ❞

SYNOPSIS: innocent cherub eyes, gently soft hands, a heart of gold, mark lee is the golden boy whose experienced as much love as he gives back. his grades are high, his smile is wide, and his laughter is sweet. the only reason mark lee gets embroiled in a world of trouble is because of his pairing with the 'messed up foster kid' in a school project. it would be stupid to ever let himself get involved, but mark does anyway.

PAIRING: mark lee x male!reader

GENRE: mid–2000s au, high school au, strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, humor(?), slow burn, one sided pining to mutual pining, sadness as a romantic segway, relationship study, reader is a foster kid, mark pov, happy ending.. (i suppose)

WARNINGS: swearing, explicit language, violence, drug abuse, child abuse & neglect, family issues, mentions of death, smoking, homophobia, reader simply has the worst time and mark sobs about his circumstances, an awful amount of love that isn't realized to be love

WORD COUNT: 2.7k (preview) | ..pending (full fic)

NOTES: hello everyone, this is my baby, the birth was very special, i love my baby so much 💗 listen! i started this in early august and i am STILL going, this going to be LONG.. longest mins-fins work ever long 😞 im estimating 30–40k, the power of mark lee yall 😇 it's going to go on forever, and it's definitely going to be sad in some ways, i am currently about to hit 20k words.. sooooiooooo 😊😊 i hope you like this preview bc i really dk when the real thing is coming out 😭😭 im in so much pain rn, let me nap now 😴

BEFORE IT WAS IN THE CRISP AUTUMN ATMOSPHERE, mark lee had met you at the local police station. it was only a few months prior, august of 2004 brought the prospect of donghyuck doing everything to try and get arrested, prospects that mark could only respond with under the breath swears. he loves donghyuck, he really does, but driving shouldn't have been his first choice. in all of the friendships mark has had with other people in his life, donghyuck has always brought a wave of chaos along with him, the exact opposite of who mark's mom would advise him to stay away from, but she'd always had a soft spot for him, mark can't exactly blame her.

fresh off turning seventeen and utterly clueless as to what the future would bring, mark only found himself at the police station for one reason. donghyuck had driven without a license. yep, sixteen years old and he assumed doing an illegal u-turn was the way to end his summer.

mark has always been a stand up kid. the kind who handed out his mom's cookies to the neighbors. the kind who called for stray cats in alleyways. the kind who was simply an innocent bystander to all the bullshit his friends would pull.

so when donghyuck called him from a jail phone, voice heightened in indignation as he begged for mark to come make a case for him, the older really had no choice but to do so. mark had never been to a police station before, afraid of catching sight of real criminals in the flesh by just walking past the building. he had heard too many scary stories, had terrible ideas of human beings planted in his head.

and even as a seventeen year old who had experienced life enough that such things shouldn't have terrified him anymore, there was still a small pit in his stomach as he rounded the corner in direction of the building.

"and how exactly am i supposed to bail you out?" an eyebrow raise accompanied mark's inquiry, and donghyuck scoffed as he shook his cuffed hands.

"you don't have to bail me out, my dad knows the sheriff, i'm just getting off with a warning" he whispered, sweat on his brow as he shared that familiar 'no shit' look with mark (an ironic expression really, he's the only one between the two of them that's been in cuffs).

mark snickered. "you talk so much when you're the one handcuffed".

"watch your mouth, you need me".

just as donghyuck was about to let out a swear in addition to his snappy response, said sheriff walked into the room, tight lipped smile painting his face. "don't try that again donghyuck, or next time you'll end up in a cell".

in a instant, donghyuck's blood ran cold, mark almost laughed at the sight, but he remained still, watching. the older man glanced up, catching mark's anxiety ridden eyes. "and you are?"

"this is mark, my best friend" donghyuck was quick to quip, a hand placed onto his shoulder.

mark's stomach dropped to his feet, it isn't as if he did anything wrong, it was simply on par for him to be severely anxious around law enforcement in general, he was just afraid he'd somehow get arrested for nothing at all.

"ohhh i remember you, i used to assume you two were brothers".

mark let out a breathy (and clearly faked) chuckle, trying to bury his anxiety. he could never explain it, even if you gave him all the words to, it's not like he's a bad kid, he just finds himself tensing often. "no, just friends.."

"it's good to have someone so close as support" he narrowed his eyes at donghyuck, who stifled his scoff at the clear sarcasm lacing his tone. he then scrunched his nose, watching as donghyuck placed a performative smile on his lips. "now you, sir, we need to have a talk".

donghyuck frowned, whining out complaints as he's dragged away by the sheriff. "can you wait, mark?"

mark blinked, shoving his hands into his pant pockets. he nodded, out of words. the two bantered back and forth like friends, something mark could only stare idly at. he made his way over to the seats beside the door, where, nestled in the corner of one of them, was you.

you were scribbling something into your notebook, unaware of the eyes on you. mark sat two chairs away from you, tapping his feet onto the floor as he heard the faint sounds of scoldings. safe driving, don't get into a car without a license, your future won't be any better if you continue this shit.

swearing at a child, mark found that rich. he glances beside him again, now watching you intently. you were engrossed in the manner your pen scratched against your paper, mark had figured out through endless staring that you hadn't been writing, but drawing.

you avoided his eyes for a while, ignorant to the eyes gazing you up and down. you then glanced in mark's direction, almost startling him out of his seat with the sudden stare. you blinked, puzzled out of your mind. "is there something on my face?"

mark tensed in his seat, feeling his stomach swirl, was he staring so much that you felt offended? he felt guilty immediately, his lips parting immediately and releasing a silent breath. "no.. no i'm sorry, i didn't mean to".

you shrugged your shoulders, one click to your pen. mark recognized you, but he simply couldn't conjure up an explanation as to why you were sitting in a police station at this time, drawing whatever into your notebook. "so why are you staring then?"

"i'm trying to figure out why you're here" mark muttered, fingers fiddling with his necklace as he tried to get his tone straight in fear of again offending you. "i'm sure you aren't committing crimes".

"i can say the same for you, mr golden boy".

mark's lips turned up slightly, his hands twitching from where they rested on his lips. "i got kicked out.. always come here to let dad and mom cool off for a few hours".

the words earned an eyebrow raise from mark, that was strange to hear, especially from another person in regards to their own parents. mark had never really experienced such a thing, the way you described it made his nose scrunch. "what?"

before you could respond to that one, a police officer entered the room, one you seemed to recognize by the way your eyes lit up. "come on l/n, time to go".

a frown settled onto your lips. "do i really have to go now? you know how my parents are.."

"i can't keep you here, it would technically be illegal".

"it's not like they'll care anyway.." you mumbled, slamming your notebook shut with yet another click to your pen. "just an hour longer, please?"

there was a sense of hope in your eyes, maybe he would actually take your words into account. mark simply stared, staggered by what he was witnessing. the officer watched the change of your expressions, your thumb playing at the button on your pen, continuously clicking over and over. as the clicks amplified, so did the sound of your labored breathing.

"you know i can't do that kid".

your frown deepened, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. worry, that's what mark remembered. your eyes widened, but not in the usual shock, simply in disappointment. you cursed under your breath, muttering something about your parents getting pissed at your reappearance. you stopped clicking your pen, letting the chagrin settle onto you. "yeah.."

you sucked your teeth, imitating the look of a sulky child. mark was consumed by his silence, completely confused by the situation. he didn't give a comment, simply watched the whole entire thing happen. "i'll give you a few minutes, don't worry".

you didn't respond to that one, your eyes following the police officer who strolled out the door towards his car. you bit into your lip again, hands grasping onto your notebook and thumb still pressing onto your pen. "what bullshit".

mark continued staring, his hands clutching at his thighs. you then glanced at him once more, causing for him to flinch back. you stayed silent, watching him as much as he did you a few minutes prior.

"are you alright?" he muttered, leaving his voice at a low volume. he didn't want to raise it, he wanted to keep it at a volume that kept you comfortable.

you snickered, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "fine, going home is just my worst nightmare".

mark's fingers found themselves sliding across his legs, teeth sliding against each other in back and forth motions. he blinked his big brown eyes, staring with an assured gaze he hoped would somehow make it's way to you. "i'm sorry".

he whispered those two words as if he was in physical pain, eyes watering for an inexplainable moment. he couldn't help it, and he had no idea why he couldn't help it. it was embarrassing how much he felt at the moment.

you stared back, lips pursuing. your expressions did at least seventy transformations, as if you were in disbelief at someone having empathy for you. you seemed distraught, why is he tearing up? that's so strange.

you chuckled, hoping it would quell his worries. "it's okay, not like it's your fault".

"still, you shouldn't have to feel that way about going home.. your parents shouldn't be kicking you out".

you grimaced, put off by the words. it isn't as if they were terrible, you just seemed.. astonished. why did he care? it was simply weird to you.

"well thank you for your concern but i'll be fine".

mark blinked away the tears threatening to escape his eyes, god what was wrong with him? why did he even tear up at that? he totally weirded you out.

"yeah um.. i'm sorry" mark bit into his inner cheek, letting out a heavy sigh. "just have a good day" a theatric smile placed itself on his lips, he was definitely trying to convince himself that it wasn't that bad of a situation.

you stared longer, seemingly itching to say something. there were words resting on the tip of your tongue, mark could practically sense it. "yeah, you too".

and when you stood up to walk out of the door, donghyuck coincidentally escaped the clutches of the sheriff, stumbling out of his office with his arms crossed over his chest. the door closed behind you, and mark watched the entire time.

"what took you so long?" mark uttered, eyes casting donghyuck's way.

the younger huffed in his usual donghyuck manner, hands on his hips. "he was giving me a big talk about safe driving" he placed heavy air quotes around the last two words, lips curled into a frown.

mark licked his teeth, his thoughts retracing back to you. "do you know him..?"

donghyuck blinked, his mouth opening to ask about who until he saw the way mark motioned his head. "y/n? oh yeah, he's around here all the time, the officers basically take him in whenever.."

"why?"

his voice scratched like sandpaper, donghyuck wincing at the tone. he then shrugged his shoulders, his attitude puzzled. "something about his parents not really caring, it's pretty shitty".

mark's lips parted in a freezing motion, his stomach pain only worsening. "that's scary.. feeling safer at the police station than your own home".

"i don't know much about his situation, just know his parents have a terrible temper".

mark swallowed the lump in his throat, his head beginning to pound at the information given. he tried to distract himself by thinking about school coming up soon, but he was snapped back into reality by donghyuck.

"why are you even asking me about y/n?"

mark glanced up at his childhood friend, a small whisper in his mind telling him to lie. "just curious that's all".

the lie laid bitter on his tongue, but he didn't allow for donghyuck to dwell on it, rising from the chair he's practically glued himself to. "promise me you'll never illegally drive again, the officers here look like they wanna kill me".

donghyuck rolled his eyes, tease evident in his attitude. "okay markie, promise".

mark pushed his shoulder in retaliation.

that? that was two months ago.

before the crisp autumn weather drifted through the atmosphere, before the leaves began falling to decorate the ground in orange and brown hues, mark lee had met you at the local police station. your legs crossed, pen clicking, and nose buried into your notebook.

september came and went rather quickly, the scorching heat of the summer air transforming into the russet autumn scenery which drifts into october. the temperature steadily dropping, sweaters becoming more and more common in his closet, mark can't exactly focus in class during the first few months of school.

when mark hears his name fall from his teacher's lips in pair with yours, he snaps out of an episode of disassociation, blinking up. "what?"

his teacher deadpanned, readjusting her glasses. she doesn't even seem surprised by his lack of focus anymore, his exhaustion is constantly evident. "project partners mark, you'll be paired with y/n".

mark only parts his lips in response, the words rendering him speechless. he glances around the classroom as he listens to the older woman's voice blurs into the background, catching sight of you in the far back, again scribbling into your notebook, your manner reminiscent of how you acted the first time you two met.

he stares for a while before again looking forward, his mouth going dry as he tries again to focus, but of course, he can't. his mind stays focused on you throughout the whole class, even after the endless words he lets blur away.

you spin your pen between your fingers, it's the same pen you had that day, maybe you have some sort of attachment to it or something, maybe it's your favorite pen, maybe someone special gifted that pen to you.

maybe mark's letting it all get to his head, why is he even making assumptions when he hasn't walked up to you yet?

while everyone else rushes to leave the class, mark rises from his seat and again glances over at you, slinging his back over his shoulder.

you're riveted by what you're doing in your notebook, so absorbed that you barely hear the shuffling footsteps making their way around the many desks towards yours. your lips turn down as you smudge the ink on the page, a small suck of the teeth adding to your frustration.

"um.. hi" mark whispers, watching as you glance up and pause, one click to your pen. you don't respond immediately, studying mark for a while, and mark tenses up under your gaze, sucking a breath between his teeth.

"hi".

"we uh— were partners for the project".

your smile is neutral. "i know".

mark began biting the skin off his lips, hands gripping at his backpack. "i don't know where you want to start, uh.. maybe we could go to the library?"

he's just saying what he's hoping will work. he doesn't exactly know you yet, he assumes your one off interaction at the police station left a sour taste in your mouth.

but unbeknownst to mark's anxious inner voice, you smile, not exactly a neutral one this time, a much better smile ('better' in terms of expression, your lips stretch into an aspect of satisfaction).

"that'd be nice".

mark nods, almost too enthusiastically he thinks. how embarrassing. you let out a silent yawn, oblivious to the battle mark is having in his head. "tomorrow maybe we can start?"

your smile again becomes neutral, but at least mark doesn't think you want to kill him. "yeah, tomorrow is fine".

tomorrow. tomorrow is fine.

"okay, have a good day y/n".

mark rushes out of the classroom much too fast, he feels a little terrified of you. maybe you don't exactly want to kill him, maybe you just look at everyone else in that way, maybe it won't be that bad to be paired with you.

still, mark isn't sure why his mind tells him he should stay away from you.

[yameoto]

scumbag fuck but i swear that she’s not

she's so good to me, and nobody else

supernatural!au quinn masterpost

big sis. roadhead. barfight. somno.

“yeah, well maybe i don’t want to spend my life hunting monsters til' i'm fucking eighty, quinn!” quinn gives you the most unimpressed look of her life, because seriously? the two of you aren't living til' you're eighty, anyways. “yeah, well tough shit, baby sis.” she jerks the wheel just a little sharper than she should, like a fucking ass. "you run away again and i'll tie your tight-ass up and cram you in the boot, you hear me?"

backstory

▸ born in a supremely episcopalian, puritan household, LUCY QUINN FABRAY is the first daughter of russell fabray, famous preacherman in the deep south. when her mother, judy fabray, bursts into flames at the hands of a devil, above the cot of her baby sister, russell turns back to the hunting life, for good; taking his two girls' along with him.

▸ quinn's baby sister was dropped off on the fabray's doorstep when quinn was 4. russell believes she was ‘sent by the angels’, and the second coming of jesus.

▸ russell's cover as a travelling preacherman, and the long nature of certain hunts, meant he often left his girls’ to live alone for long stretches of time. for most of their lives, quinn has taken sole responsibility of the care of her baby sister. cooking, cleaning, the whole nines. from the moment russell thrust the infant into quinn’s arms as they fled from the fire, quinn has formed her entire identity around being her baby sisters’ protector.

“but daaaddd..” quinn can't help it. the baby is swaddled up in cloth, eyes blinking guilessely up at her, because apparently she's its ‘big sister.’ it’s been quiet since it came 'home’. a good girl. almost too good, her mom says. and yeah, okay. maybe it really is a gift from the angels. quinn doesn’t know what it has to do with sunday school, but she knows one thing; she’s jealous. she wants to be cooed over and coddled and called sent by the heavens like she used to do (but the way her dad says it this time sounds different. like he means it more, or something). besides, she doesn’t want to share her toys with a stupid new baby. “lucy, enough. good girls don’t whinge. say something nice, or don’t say it at all.” quinn opens her mouth to protest, before deflating on the stern look on her father's face. “i guess it’s kinda cute.” quinn huffs, blowing air out of rosy cheeks, golden curls framing her face like she’s been ripped right from some old romantic painting of a cherub. quinn reaches out, gingerly prodding the baby’s cheek. it makes an indistinct babbling sound, little arms reaching upwards. “looks like she likes you, honey.” comes russell’s deep rumble, overlooking the scene, expression unreadable. “really?” quinn perks up, because the prospect of being the only one this dumb baby likes makes it a little less dumb in her books—before she catches herself. crosses her arms. “well, i don’t care.” except she’s crawled over to sit beside the baby’s cot anyways. she asks, eventually “..can i hold her, daddy?”

▸ quinn has hunted from an early age, russell bringing her out on hunts to ‘watch’ as early as six years old, in order to familiarise his child with the supernatural in order to better protect herself and her younger sister better. quinn was 12 years old when allowed on her first, proper hunt. russell never allowed them to hunt individually, even in early adulthood.

▸ russell fabray originally never intended for his daughters to hunt, as he wanted to keep them ‘pure’ as possible. quinn, however, snuck into her fathers’ car when he was going out for a hunt one too many times (with her oblivious baby sister towed along, of course).

▸ for long, long hunts, russell would drop his children off a motel or at a fellow hunters’ house for extended periods, in which they would be enrolled at the local school for 1-6 months. quinn flourished, adopting the head bitch role like a second skin. even took up cheerleading. quinn enjoyed these brief stints of normalcy (and gratuitous popularity) though she would never admit it.

"hi, baby sis.” quinn gives you a fond hair ruffle as she passes you by, and you swat her wrist away, scowling at the retreating form of your older sister. you're just glad she didn't pinch your cheek or anything. that would be lame. though, what's totally lamer, is the slackjawed look your potential new friend is giving you right now. “your sister is quinn fabray?” the girl gapes. “the quinn fabray?” you stare back, uncomprehending. “um. last time i checked. yeah?” “instant head bitch, prom queen shoein, second coming of jesus, quinn fabray? because, like, everybody’s been waiting for chiara’s epic downfall, ‘cause everyone knows she’s a hypocrite and also a major slut, and then your sister strutted in the lunchroom on her first day and—“ you tuned out five seconds ago. is this a dream? this feels like a dream. the two of you have only been in town for four months! you didn’t know quinn was fucking notorious, or something. most demons’ or talkative monsters just dub you as those fabray brats and are done with that. this is entirely uncharted waters for eighth-grade you. you take one glance back, because you’ve got to be missing something. in your head, you’re thinking more like; too-lazy-to-clean-the-toothpaste-tube-and-lets-it-harden-into-something-disgustingly-crusty quinn fabray? takes-five-years-in-the-shower-and-uses-all-the-last-body-wash-and-fills-it-up-with-water-before-it’s-your-turn quinn fabray? your annoying, overprotective, (admittedly badass) older sister, quinn fabray? you've seen her, sure. sashaying down the hallways, blonde hair tight in a highpony, in a cheerleading uniform—which was so fucking weird the first time and you don't think you'll ever get used to it. not because you've never seen quinn in skimpy clothing before (whenever dad needs her to charm the wits out of some sorry sucker), but never like this. never, so.. normal. even if she's got this glint in her eyes that you recognise when she's facing off bloody wendigos; except its period 3 bell in some bumfuck town in the middle of ohio. it suits her, you think; normal. like she has eyes at the back of her head or something, midway down the hallway, quinn turns around and meets your gaze. her mouth changes, from that sweet, sweet smile disguising the devil underneath you've seen her wear nowadays, into that warm, fond grin she reserves only for you, with a flash of her canines and a subtle wink she learned when the two of you would play pranks on dad, in the early years. you shoot her a brazen middle finger for her troubles, and she just throws her head back and laughs, airy and breathy and carefree. you suppress the instinctive urge to return it with a grin, as you both go opposite ways, new spring in both steps. the quinn fabray. yeah, right. that's just your big sister.

▸ when quinn was 22, her baby sister got into stanford on full scholarship, abandoning the hunting life for a normal one. this led to a huge blow-up argument which escalated until they both went radio silent, for two years. stems from their intense sibling codependency, and the fact quinn, as her ‘protector’, derived all meaning from caring for her sister—and thus didn’t know what the hell she was good for, without her. this is the same reason quinn keeps to hunting. even beyond the whole, family first, ‘it’s in your blood’ schtick. there is nothing else that she knows.

facts.

▸ quinn's episcopolian upbringing means she has extensive biblical knowledge, especially due to being so exposed to her father. she is family-first, always.

▸ quinn wears a cross necklace around her neck that she never takes off, as her baby sister gifted it to her, on one of many christmases spent just the two of them, when russell left them alone for two weeks in a motel room.

▸ quinn had lingering faith in god, though moreso for it represented her idyllic childhood and a time in which she lived in relative normalcy. she is now a heretic. not a skeptic, a heretic.

“i thought you were saving this for dad..?” quinn, 12 mumbles, sleepily lifting her head from the shitty motel couch. she frowns, as you, 8, crawl up on the cushions to face her. your form is illuminated by the christmas lights she stole from the house down the street, while you were sleeping. “dad’s not here. you are,” you point out, as if it’s as simple as that. maybe it is. “i warded it. kinda.” your brows knit, sitting cross-legged in front of her as you hold up the necklace, shifting as if embarrassed. “i dunno. i jus' followed a few things i saw when i was snooping through dad’s journal. they probably don’t work, but..” they don't. she knows, just from running a finger over the silver emblem of the cross, that it's virtually useless. she couldn't give less of a fuck. instead, she turns, hands gathering up her hair and pushing it upwards, exposing the pale expanse of her nape. "put it on for me?" she asks, after a moments' silence, not even scolding you for, first of all; looking at dad's journal (big nono). secondly; trying your hand at an ancient, potentially town-levleling rite you can't even read properly because you wanted to give her a christmas present. who does that? (her baby sister, that's who. and the thought swells quinn with pride and a curshing wave of love, even though she knows she should be a good big sister and tell you off). except, she can't. not when your fingers so cautious, so soft—unweathered by the callouses of hunting life, the grooves of clutching a knife to your chest, unfamiliar with the cold metal of a trigger guard. she savours your softness. drinks it in, in a way she already knows is greedy but she can't help it, and in the moment you finish clumsily clasping it around her neck, she turns and flings her arms around you and tucks you close to her chest. nose burrowing into the familiar, earthy scent of your sweatdamp locks and promises to mom and to god that'll she'll take care of you for as long as she fucking lives. "i'm never taking it off, ever. i swear, lil' sis." "..never ever?" "never fucking ever."

▸ since losing her faith, quinn wears the cross necklace inverted. it is symbolic of her devotion—not to god—but to her sister.

▸ nobody calls quinn ‘lucy’ except for her father. this is because judy named her, and he clutches onto his wife through quinn. quinn goes by her middle name for the same reason.

▸ russell used to keep quinn's hair long as a child, for the same reason that she reminded him of judy, and preserve his eldests' semblance of innocence. quinn now regularly hacks it off to various lengths for practicality's sake.

OVERARCHING PLOT CONTEXT (SPN S1-5): follows the canon trajectory of spn seasons 1-5. angels/demons working together in order to break the seals, free lucifer and jumpstart the apocalypse. quinn is the vessel for michael, and her baby sister is the vessel for lucifer.

her baby sister was not sent by the angels, but was in fact delivered by azazel, the same demon who killed their mother. russell fabray, rather than being a voice/prophet of god, he has been obliviously consorting with devils, disguised as angels, who have been using him and his children to bring about the apocalypse.

to be finished.