#guess who got colored pencils...

[hectorthedoggo]

Wow! im not putting it under a cut! yay me :3

[imissthestarswhenicry]

its cold outside 🌌

[1930sdarlin]

[Do not repost without my (the artist's) permission]

[naniwatig3r]

CONTOUR LINES (18+)

Mingyu x artstudent!Femreader

Summary: You’ve finally broken up with your boyfriend Mingyu. Ignoring him has been hard, but you were finally at peace. But he had other plans, as he shows up to the figure drawing class you T.A…. And as the model.

Warnings: Unexplained breakup (im lazy lol), angst, cute fluff sometimes, art school stress, public nudity, public unprotected penetrative sex (no one is around though!), quickie

a/n: this was a idea i got while messing around with my friend who has a thing for mingyu, lol.

Word count: uhhh, around 7k ? I can’t remember 😅

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Another miss call.

Great, you thought, the tenth missed call from your ex boyfriend Mingyu this week.

It’s been about a month since you broke up with your ex, Kim Mingyu. It was an odd pairing in the first place. You met him coincidentally in the quad the beginning of the year, as you sat at the edge of the school fountain. Your sketchbook open, as you drew the scenery and people around you. A normal activity you did as an arts student.

You were clearly in the zone, drawing the fold in a random college student’s arm, before a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Whoa, you can draw.”

Your eyes snap up, seeing a towering figure, completely blocking your view. No shit, you thought.

“Yeah, I guess.” You say plainly, hoping your short answer would deter this guy. But then the sunlight is back on the page you’re drawing, and you feel his warm presence sit right next to you. Maybe he’s just sitting down to sit down, so you try and finish your life drawing of the current student, but they were gone. Probably going to their next class.

Huffing, you still for a moment to put your pencil down.

“I wish I could draw like that,” You hear, as you glance to your side. Furrowing your eyebrows in irritation as the man leans over to stare directly into your sketchbook. “You’re a really good drawer.” He says in awe.

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” You say curtly, as he continues to stare at your sketches like he’s at a museum. These sketches were nothing compared to a Degas or something, yet he stared at them like it was, his brown eyes flickering around in interest.

He clears his throat, as he looks up to meet your eyes. He smiles, a toothy one where you notice how sharp his canines were. Cute.

He pulls his sleeve up from his wrist to his elbow, holding his large hand out, “Mingyu. Kim Mingyu.” He says, introducing himself. You nod, reluctantly shaking his hand, his grip tight and strong.

“Y/n.” You say back shortly, eyeing him, wondering how long this tall man was going to bother you.

He lets go of your hand, as he adjusts his position to turn more towards you. One leg over the other, leaning forward. His bangs falling so perfectly across his eyebrow, that it made you narrow your eyes. It’s crazy, people like this seriously exist huh?

“Do you do art or something?” No shit.

You nod, “Yeah, I’m a fine arts major.” You respond, giving him a strained polite smile. It felt like you had to, the way this guy has been beaming at you like a puppy as you give the driest replies.

He grins, “Whoa, no way. Thats cool,” He praises, “I’m—“

The rest of the meet cute didn’t matter.

After this, you kept bumping into him, coincidence you thought at first, but thinking back… he had no reason to be near the art school area of the campus.

He always asked to see your sketchbook, or whatever was in your portfolio folder as you tried to get to your studio. Even helping you carry your supplies and folders inside, and once he learned where you worked he came with iced coffee when he could.

At 3 am, he’d lay on the floor of your messy studio, watching you as you mix another color on your palette. Your sweatshirt pushed to your elbows, paint on your hands and face as you work on the gigantic canvas for your final.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” You say a bit softly, your eyes tired despite your multiple energy drinks. “It must be boring to watch me throw paint for the last few hours.”

He shakes his head, sitting up as he looks at you with his puppy like eyes. “No, I like it. You’re so focused…” He trails, “I didn’t think art would be this hard.”

You glare at him for that remark, making him immediately tread back. His mouth gaping open and closing like a fish, “Ah! Not like that it’s easy — just that you’re so passionate you know?” He explains, throwing his hands around.

Rolling your eyes, you put your brush back into the muddy cup of water. “Why? Engineering not doing it for you?” You ask lazily, as you pull your claw clip out of your hair. Massaging your scalp from the tension.

Mingyu’s eyes focused on you, his cheeks slightly flushing. Eyes roving over how strands of your hair effortlessly frame your face. He clears his throat, “Uh, no. I like it. I’ve always been good at studying, and I get the material so,” He says, as he scratches his head.

“But I guess, it’s different watching you. Your eyes are different when you’re drawing, painting, sculpting. Whatever.” He says quietly.

“Different?” You muse, standing up to stretch your legs. Mingyu following instinctively, his tall frame dwarfing you.

He nods, “Mhm, yeah. I thought art was just a major for people who didn’t want to do anything, but getting to know you…” he says, as he follows you to your studio table. As you open the most recent energy drink you got from the vending machine. “You just don’t stop. Like you’re meant to do it.” He breathes.

His genuine words make you raise an eyebrow, turning to him. You give him a small smile, making his heart rate jump. “Yeah? It’s like you, I think.” You say, taking a sip of that battery acid of a drink. “I’ve just been doing this since forever. Natural to keep going.” You say nonchalantly, but Mingyu looks at you like you’re a living genius.

“Thats whats so cool,” He gushes, “You’re just made to do this.” He says, as he glances at your current work in progress. A large canvas with pleasing colors, his eye being drawn to the right areas. The beautifully rendered figure, framed with all the right strokes.

He looks back at you, with such an adoration you think it’s hallucinations from doing so many allnighters.

“Ah,” he starts, as he moves his long legs to shuffle through his bag, pulling out some tupperware. “I forgot, I was making uh, some dinner earlier and I had leftovers.” He lies, knowing full well he made it for you. He turns around, opening the tupperware to reveal a lunch box of different side dishes and protein. It could rival any meal inspo on pinterest, as he even carefully cut out seaweed to make cute faces.

You snicker, making Mingyu’s cheeks pink. “Leftovers huh?” You say, as you grab the lunchbox from him. Your fingers brushing over his, a welcome warmth from the cold air conditioning of the studio. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I was just gonna make some ramen.”

“Yeah no problem,” He strains, smiling. “You need energy to keep on going right? At least eat well if you’re gonna sacrifice your sleep.”

You take a bite, and even though it was cold, you nod in approval at the taste. The annoyingly large man could cook. Your reaction makes Mingyu grin, as you can see shamelessly how much that did to his ego.

“Still, you should go you know?” You say, as you remember Mingyu talking about his week a few days ago as you painted. “Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?”

Oh? He doesn’t focus on the fact that you’re asking him to go. Only that you remembered his schedule. He grins, “You remembered huh?”

You roll your eyes, “Of course I did. You told me.” You say, your own cheeks reddening from how embarrassed you felt from Mingyu’s reaction. Why was he so excited?

He shakes his head, “It’s fine, I was reviewing earlier. It’s in the afternoon anyways.”

You finish the lunchbox, washing it down with your energy drink before going to pick up a new large paint brush. “Fine by me then,” you sigh, not bothering to argue with him. It was weird the first time he accompanied you on an allnighter, but Mingyu’s presence became a normal occurrence since then.

And there he was, sitting obediently like a dog next to you as you continued painting. Your playlist ending hours ago, as the only sounds are the strokes of your brush, and the breathing of both of you.

It was like this for a while, until near the end of the year. This time, you were running out of steam.

Maybe it was all the all nighters the whole year, or the fact you got sick right before finals, but you were stuck in your studio once more. Slaving away as you work on your third painting of the night, trying to get your exhibition finished before sunlight.

You hear the sound of the door opening. He had his own key now — you copied one at one point since he always was knocking. Mingyu coming in with late night take out in one hand, clad in grey sweatpants and a hoodie, ready to tackle the night with you.

You don’t even bother looking behind you, his familiar presence and cologne already telling you who it is. “Hey,” He says softly, putting the food down as he notices your tired state. It was like you were running on fumes, the amount of empty redbulls and monsters around your studio telling him all he needed to know.

You grunt, “Yeah, hey.” You say tiredly, as you wipe your face with the back of your hand. Paint smearing on your cheek. Mingyu comes over with a napkin from the takeout container, huffing as he wipes your cheek with it.

“Whens the last time you took a break?” He asks, a bit worried. Despite hanging out with you for so long, he wouldn’t say he knew anything about art. But he knew you. And the way your wrist movements against the canvas were sluggish, and the way your eyebrows furrowed as the strokes didn’t land and look the way you wanted… he knew you were at your limit.

“Doesn’t matter, I have another painting after this.” You say roughly, “Fuck, I’m such an idiot. I should have painted when I was sick. At least worked on the concepts and colors so I didn’t have to figure it out right now.” You rant, sucking your bottom lip into your teeth.

Mingyu frowns, “No, y/n. What about a fifteen minute break? I got burgers, it’ll help.” He says, but your face isn’t budging, like the strict deadlines for the paintings.

You curse, “God, Mingyu, I can’t stop. All the fucking pieces look like shit, if I stall any longer I’ll never finish this ass of an exhibition.” You say shakily, as you haphazardly throw your brush into the water cup, the muddy water splashing out. You grab another brush to pick up a new color.

He looks around the 10 other pieces littered around the room drying, he doesn’t get it, and he never would. They all looked great, cohesive despite your protests. “Y/n, they look great. You gotta take a break you know? Maybe it’ll help. Maybe your eyes will like, reset or something. You’ve been looking at this painting for hours.” He says, trying to reason.

You don’t listen, as you flick your wrist harshly to create a quick line of color.

clack!

You wince, dropping your brush to clatter on the floor. Your wrist acting up at the worst time, as you curse under your breath. Mingyu’s hands go up instinctively to hold your wrist, holding it still.

“God, now my wrist is flaring up too. Great, just what I need!” You curse bitterly, your head down.

Mingyu holds your wrist gently, despite your angry state you don’t push him away as he gingerly inspects your wrist. “Hey, come on. Lets take a break, and then we can wrap your hand alright?” He says softly, trying to coax you.

He leans down to see your hidden face, and it breaks his heart. Hot tears welling in your eyes from stress, frustration, and the impending deadline.

He doesn’t think twice, leaning down to hold you into an embrace, pulling you off your stool into his arms. Tight, the tips of your shoes barely grazing the floor. You can’t help but cry into his shoulder, “God, why am I so bad? I can’t show anyone any of this,” You sob, as Mingyu rubs your back. His grip tightening around you, holding you close as you basically collapse into his arms.

“Hey, y/n, you’ve just been working too long. Lets take a break alright? It’ll look better once you rest your eyes a bit, I promise.” He coos, “I’ve got some burgers and sweet potato fries, even convinced them to give me extra —“

“Mingyu, why are you always here?” You ask bluntly, choking back your tears. Through the whole year you’ve been tolerating him getting closer. First, random conversations when you bumped into each other on campus, then visiting the art school, coming to your studio, staying to keep you company. You never once tried to push him away, but you didn’t understand how he hasn’t been turned off yet. Your all nighters, your insecurities, the way you reject his invitations to campus parties and events to work. It was all a mystery, especially as you crash out in his arms, over some acrylic and oil on canvas. This must look pathetic to him.

His eyes are a bit panicked at the question, “I uh, do you not want me to be?” He asks reluctantly, still holding you close.

You sniff, your hand against his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie into your fist.

“No, I just... Thank you.” You say quietly into his chest, and Mingyu felt his head spin. You could definitely hear it, he thought, the way his heart was pounding out his chest. How you relied on him, telling him to stay. If it wasn’t for the fact you were leaning on him to stay up, he’d probably melt into a puddle on the floor.

Mingyu takes you to the table, helping you sit down on one of the comfier chairs. A foldable one with a pillow he brought at one point, so he could watch you comfortably. He boasted once — y/n look! Found this by the dumpster!

You let out a deep sigh as you sit down, Mingyu bending down to his knees to look at you eye level. A hand to your cheek as you close your eyes tiredly. “Hey, you okay?” He asks, searching your face.

You nod, “Yeah, um, sorry,” You sigh, “I’m just — I’m just stressed. I didn’t mean to have a breakdown in front of you.” You say apologetically, embarrassed by it. But he shakes his head, not affected by it. In fact, it probably caused him to fall harder, seeing how hard you work.

“Don’t apologize,” He says, pushing strands of your hair back. You look up at him, straight into his brown eyes. The way he looks at you so fondly, worried, that his bottom lip juts out slightly as he observes you. The way his fingers felt along your cheek, how he’s warmed you up in the cold room, brought takeout for you.

Fuck, how his hair is tousled under the hood, and the fact his face was a sight for sore eyes after looking at your paintings all day. Something with actual 3d planes staring at you, instead of flat canvas. Maybe it was the all nighters, the fact you’re on multiple energy drinks on an empty stomach, or that Mingyu is there for you.

You lean forward, shutting your eyes shut as you push your lips against his.

It’s warm, soft… might even get lost in it if—

You pull back after a second, as you see Mingyu’s wide eyes.

Oh fuck, did you read this wrong? Shit, at least you can blame it on lack of sleep—

A pair of lips crash into yours again, this time, you part yours as Mingyu’s warm lips mold into yours. Its warm, and comforting and everything nice, as you grab his collar to pull him closer. Making him stumble forward as he holds onto the edge of the chair to steady himself close to you.

You let out a soft breath as Mingyu snakes his free hand around to the small or your back, pushing you close as possible to him. Mingyu compensating for your lack of energy with his, as he kisses you deeply, something he’s always wanted to do. Every since he watched you draw random people at that campus fountain.

He pulls back as you pathetically try to chase his lips, as he kisses you chastely before speaking. “Y/n,” He breathes, “Fuck, you don’t know how long I wanted to do that.” He confesses, as he holds your face in his large hands.

You smile softly, “Mingyu, I—“

The box of charcoals clatter, as you accidentally drop it right next to the table of supplies. Sheepishly you bow at the students in class, not meaning to disrupt their focus.

You bend down to pick up the charcoal. What are you doing? It may be the third figure drawing class today, but dropping a box of pencils as you recount your days with Mingyu was horrible. Terrible.

Especially when you boasted to one of your friends as you shared a meal, Ah, Kim Mingyu? Thats over. Lets just focus on grad review.

You sigh, standing back up as you slide the box of art supplies on the table. Checking the time, you slide the notifications of Mingyu’s missed calls away. It was five minutes before class started, where the hell was the model?

And as if on cue, the other T.A. comes skitting towards you, pushing her glasses up as she avoids the boxes of supplies around the room. “Ah, Y/n—“ She starts, talking quietly to not cause alarm.

She stops in front of you, as you furrow your brows. Today the professor wasn’t in. As the consistent T.A., she trusted you to handle today with no substitutes. It wasn’t anything hard. You just helped set up the drawing horses and supplies, adjusted the lights and made sure the models were comfortable. It was easier especially when another T.A. was assigned to assist you today.

“Hm? What?” You ask, as you dust your hands.

She takes a deep breath, “Um, well, the model got food poisoning.” She starts. Leaning in so other students didn’t hear. “I just learned this right now, she’s like in the bathroom in the main hall throwing up like crazy.”

You frown, “What? Is she okay?” You say, straightening up, walking towards the front door grabbing your jacket off one of the stray art horse chairs.

She follows clumsily, “She’s fine! But she can’t model for this class. I know you’re in charge, but I panicked and just called whoever was on the emergency model list.”

You stop, causing the other T.A. to bump into your back, with a little squeak. A small what should have been insignificant memory flooding back.

“You’re TAing now? Seriously?” Mingyu asks lightly, as he fiddles with a loose strand of your sweater, the rough pads of his fingers pulling on it.

You slap his hand away disapprovingly, causing him to pout. “Yeah, just for figure drawing. I want to make a little money anyways, but working at the campus cafe is too time consuming.” You respond, as you continue to draw in your sketchbook. Outlining the foliage in front of you with your pen.

“Hm, what would that mean?” He asks, leaning forward to wrap an arm around your shoulder. Careful not to disturb your drawing, as he rests his chin on your closer shoulder. Watching you draw was his favorite past time nowadays.

“Just like, setting up, taking care of the figure drawing models. Things like that.” You respond absentmindedly.

“Models? Like, thats a job?” He asks, making you crack a smile. You forget how normal people knew nothing about art. You’re just glad he was openminded about basically everything.

You turn to look at him, “Yeah, the school hires people to pose for drawing. Its for studying.” You respond, as you tap your pen against the tip of his nose, where his beloved mole resided. Making him scrunch his nose, the corners of his lips turning up.

“Actually, I should write the emergency contact list. The professor updates every semester of models to contact if theres no shows, and the et cetera. I should just do it now so I don’t forget —“

“Add me on there then.”

You blink.

“Huh, what?” You say confused, looking at him with raised brows.

He straightens up, “You heard me. Add my number to that list. It sounds interesting,” He defends, his tone light.

You shake your head, smiling. “Mingyu, you don’t get it. You have to stand there naked, and do different poses every five to thirty minutes. Its not an easy thing to do.” You say, dismissing his words as nonsense. Sometimes he was too eager to try things just because they existed in your world.

Mingyu doesn’t falter. “Yeah I know. I just, it sounds cool. Also having a bunch of people drawing me, I don’t know… sounds nice. Also its like emergency contact right?” He says shrugging, “It’s not like it’ll actually happen. I know you’d never call me if it was an emergency, but just add me on it. If all models decide they’re not feeling it that day.” He suggests lightly.

You stare at him still in disbelief, narrowing your eyes. He scoffs, leaning forward to lean his forehead against yours as a challenge. A little goofy smile on his face, “What? Come on. Just add me to the list.”

The rational side of you knew this would never actually happen. Mingyu had no qualifications, and besides, there was a dozen other numbers to call before him. So you suck it up, sighing, writing his name down. Just for the sake that he’d shut up about it.

“Okay, fine.”

Your heart beats, eyes wide as you try to calm yourself. You didn’t want to release your anger against this girl for trying to fix the situation. It was your fault, really, in the first place to put his number on there. But this never was something that has happened before.

“Which number picked up?” You ask calmly, clasping your hands together as you focus on not exploding on your fellow T.A.

“Uh, just called the first one. He said he was on campus so he was down, and we only have five minutes till class—“

“Jesus, his name please?”

“Kim Mingyu.”

Oh fuck. Fuuuucckkkkk.

Mouth wide, and panicked eyes, you start to speak, before you hear the opening of the classroom door. You turn, and your face practically goes pale.

There he was — Kim Mingyu, just in a simple coat and pants. His eyes immediately landing on you. Its only been a month, but he cut his hair. Slightly shorter than you remember, as you tilt your head.

Stop it. You have to act normal.

You take a deep breath, trying to act professional. There was no time to question why the hell he’d even pick up and walk all the way here. Or why your heart was beating so fast, just looking at him.

“Um, escort him to the dressing room area.” You start, prying your eyes from Mingyu to the other T.A. “There should be a clean robe there too.” You inform, patting her arm as you beeline straight away from them.

You find a haphazardly stacked amount of newsprint, focusing on making all the edges match as you calm your heart. It’s fine, it really is.

For some reason Mingyu was interested in figure drawing modeling before. Maybe he just wanted to cross that off his bucket list, and had nothing to do with you.

The other T.A. comes back to stand beside you, “Is he comfortable?” You ask.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just seems a little inexperienced,” She responds, scratching her cheek. “He asked if he had to take all his clothes off, and I was like, huh? Yeah? But other that that—“

“Yeah, alright.” You interrupt dryly. “Thank you. I’ll just take over after this.” You say, as you grab the timer from the table.

You walk towards the center, clearing your throat as the art students look up. “Right, hi. Professor Kang isn’t here today, but don’t mind. Today will be quite an easy day.” You start, crossing your arms.

Your eyes immediately follow to the ruffle of the dressing curtain, as Mingyu walks out in a fluffy robe. Brown eyes meet yours, and for a second you think this will be fine. Until the corners of his lips turn up, into a toothy grin only you knew so well.

That motherfucker. Bucket list my ass, he said yes just to mess with you!

You turn away sharply, focusing back on the class. “The model today is Kim Mingyu.” You say shortly, before stepping off the small platform.

You gesture for Mingyu to walk to the center, your face stone cold as you watch him step onto the platform.

He clears his throat, “Do I take the robe off now?” He asks cluelessly.

Great, just show everyone you have no clue what you’re doing. If this was a few months ago, it’d be cute. But Mingyu standing hopelessly waiting for instructions was annoying you, to say the least.

You nod, and immediately, he undoes his robe and lets it fall to the floor.

You can’t help but stare. Your lips pressed into a thin line, your body tense. Stop stop stop! You couldn’t give him a reaction. As an artist, it was normal to see naked bodies. It wasn’t a sexual thing, especially in figure drawing. But Mingyu wasn’t just an old man or something. He was a conventionally attractive, tall, well built man. In more places than one.

“Oh shit, he’s hot.” The other T.A. whispers to you, covering her mouth. You bite back your embarrassment, as you just send her a glare for her unprofessional reaction.

It doesn’t help that other people around the room are pleasantly surprised by Mingyu, as I see pink dusting around people’s cheeks. It was infuriating, to say the least.

“Holy shit, a hot model. Is this real?”

“I thought we had a middle aged woman today. Bro… score!”

“I’ve never stared so closely.”

“Alright, warm ups. Ten one minute poses.” You say plainly, holding up the timer and pressing down on it. Immediately, Mingyu nods, springing into action.

His poses were something else. They were a bit awkward, as he stood there. First putting his hands on his hips, staring at the ground.

But he started getting more comfortable. After the ten one minute poses were up, the other T.A. Adds a stool to the platform for Mingyu to sit on.

“One pose, 15 minutes.” You say, setting the timer again.

This time instead of looking at the ground, wall, or ceiling, he stared straight at you. His eyes unwavering. The sight makes your mouth go dry, as the studio lights enhance Mingyu’s features perfectly.

His face framed by the little curl of his bang, light bouncing off his tanned skin as the definition of his muscles are on display. The way his large shoulders balance his proportions, and his skin smooth and tightly wrapped around his toned torso. He always was working out, and it seemed like he kept that up, as your eyes trail from his abs to his bottom half. Your cheeks flushing as he’s so unabashedly bare in front of the whole room.

But it only propelled your anger. How could he? Just step into your domain — the art school wing — and just come here? Posing like a gangly weirdo, riding on his looks so none of the students complained. Staring straight into your eyes as a confrontation. So much it felt like he was telepathically speaking to you.

Why aren’t you returning my calls? Or, how does this make you feel? It was infuriating.

And as if satisfied in your attention on him, he smirks, like he won some imaginary battle. This idiot.

The timer rings, making you flinch against the supply table. Your cheeks flush slightly, as you clear your throat. “Another 6 poses, each 2 minutes.” You manage to choke out, pressing the timer.

As the figure session goes on for the next hour, Mingyu’s confidence was starting to irritate you to no end. At first what was awkward, was now overtly dramatic. His poses of showing off his muscles, flexing his back, it was too much. People were here to draw, not ogle.

You decided to play, not wanting Mingyu to have the upper hand. As Mingyu goes to pick up the robe off the ground, you yell, “Stop right there!”

Mingyu freezes immediately, mainly out of confusion. His eyes drifting to you, a slight furrow of his brows.

“Now, the model will stay still. Do you see how the arm connects to the shoulder blades? Please turn to a new paper and start focusing on that area.” You say, stopping Mingyu in an uncomfortable position in the name of education.

You eye how his leg starts to shake from holding it, but it only fuels you. “Now focus on the thigh muscle, we’ll hold this pose for another 3 minutes.” You say, a little glee seeping into your voice.

Mingyu’s eyes shooting up to glare at you, as you cock your head and smile.

You push Mingyu to do crazy things, like pretending to do a lay up for 10 minutes to talk about line of action. Or when you asked the students to move in closer to draw his face, having twenty people at once hyper fixate on his expression. Now, the class was fun. You completely turned it around.

The timer rings. “Alright, lunch break.” You say, as it’s half way through the 6 hour class.

Theres a collective sigh of relief, as students massage their wrists, and Mingyu putting his robe back on, but loosely. Letting his chest peek out through the fabric, as he walks around the room.

You watch as he circles, smiling and complimenting others.

“Wow, thats really good.”

“Whoa, really love how you drew that one.”

“Is that how I look? I’m flattered! Thanks.”

You huff, looking away as you catch a glimpse of him leaning over a pretty girl’s shoulder as she shows her sketches. Purposefully letting the loose robe drape his exposed chest as he examines the drawings.

Students get up to stretch their bones outside, getting lunch during the break. The other T.A. goes to check on something, leaving only you and Mingyu in the figure drawing room.

You stand, ignoring him as you walk towards the platform, readjusting the power of the studio lights. “Next part of the class is long poses,” You say, twisting the knob. “So it’ll be harsh lights. you just have to sit there, it’ll easy.”

You turn back around, Mingyu looking at you with a small smile, barely a yard away. His hands on his hips, as he looks down at you. “You know,” He drawls, his voice low. “This was a lot more fun than I thought.”

“Is it?” You respond bitterly, “Well I’m glad. Because you’re not gonna be paid for this.” You inform him, as Mingyu isn’t a real model signed with the school.

“Thats okay, I’m getting what I wanted anyways.”

You sigh, as you cross your arms. Deciding not to beat around the bush.

“What are you doing here, Mingyu?” You ask tiredly, finally looking at him straight, your brows furrowed. You boldly looking into his playful eyes.

His smug expression softens, almost reminiscent to how he would look at you before everything. He takes his bottom lip under his teeth, chewing as he looks at you.

“You seriously need me to answer that? Like always?” He says quietly, but with only you two in the studio, he could whisper from across the room and you’d still catch it.

“What, like you actually answer me with anything that makes sense?” You respond back tightly. Sighing, you relax your shoulders, biting your cheek as you glance away from him. A student’s messy pencil case catching your attention, albeit forced.

A deafening silence falls. Mingyu never really liked to fight anyways.

“You’re, you’re difficult, you know that?” He starts, as he ruffles his hair with his hand, as if that would release his pent up frustration. “When I got the random phone call that you guys needed a last minute model, I thought for a second it was intentional.”

He takes a step closer, “But of course not. You looked like you saw a ghost when I walked in.”

You gulp, “Well, to be fair, thats what you are now.” You say quietly. Avoiding his eyes.

“Oh? So I’m just dead to you?”

“No, that would be easier.” You snap, finally looking back to face his eyes. Mingyu’s jaw clenched, his eyebrows knitted, trying to figure you out like an abstract art piece.

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a disappointed huff. “y/n.” He starts firmly, in a tone he barely used.

But of course, directed to you, making your skin crawl in the overly air conditioned room.

Hands on his hips, as he takes a long breath, his head facing down as he hides his expression. “For an artist, you’re really shit at expressing your feelings.” He sighs, his bangs hiding whatever you could gather from him.

“Fine.” He concludes, looking up, his shoulders more relaxed. “I’ll stop bothering you about it, since you’re so sure.” He says throwing his arms out. “On one condition.”

You furrow your brows in confusion, wary of whatever condition he was gonna propose. Mingyu could be unpredictable when you pushed him, making the hair at the back of your neck stand.

“Draw me.” He says finally. He glances at the clock on the wall, “They still have that lunch break. So just draw me at least once, before everyone comes back.” He proposes, turning around to walk casually to the platform, as if he’s assuming you would just do it.

Is he serious? You weren’t even together anymore, and yet he wants a free commission from you? Thats crazy, like you’d ever —

“Fine.” You say curtly, “Since you’re so desperate for my attention anyways.” You quip, walking over to the supply table, making sure your shoes stomp against the hard floor. You swipe some spare paper, clipboard, and some charcoal.

The second you were at an art horse in front of Mingyu though, your fire waned slightly. The dead silence of the room was deafening, as you adjust your clipboard. The sound of the metal clips thumping against the paper, the feet of the art horse squeaking as you adjust sitting on the worn wood.

When you gaze up at Mingyu, it was obvious. He really was getting what he wanted, and it was your undivided attention.

Once ready, the charcoal in your hand, Mingyu sits down on the stool, eyes steady on you as he grips the already loose tie around his robe with his large hand. Letting it fall, as he exposes himself once more in the bright lights you set up yourself. He kicks the robe away off the platform, set on you drawing him like this.

You blink back any feelings that threaten to show on your face, readjusting the charcoal in your hand as you avoid Mingyu’s eyes, pressing down to finally start a line.

Its been a while since you last drew figures, and it usually took an hour of continuous drawing before you really found your pace in figure drawing sessions. But it was different this time.

Your heart beats in your ears, a silence of the room highlighting the sound of your charcoal smearing against the newsprint — the sounds of your breathing and of Mingyu’s, as time passes. Agonizingly slowly, yet a focus every artist aches for.

Your hand moves accordingly. Outlining the contour of his silhouette, the way his neck slopes, the soft lines that shape his abs he always was working on. Pressing for pressure with your charcoal as you indicate the weight of him sitting on the stool, hands in his laps loose as you capture his likeness with ease.

But the focus doesn’t last for long, especially when you flicker your eyes back to his. Already flicking a stroke to mimic his right eyelid, before you still. Pressing the tip of your charcoal into the paper, crumbling against the grain as you stare into his large brown eyes.

Fuck. What are you even doing?

Why are you drawing him so intently, when you vowed just a while ago that you never wanted to see Mingyu again?

Your breath hitches, as you raise your arm, flickering back to your drawing. Charcoal in the air, swinging to run a huge line through your figure of him, to smear it, to destroy it, to —

Your wrist stops mid air, as you feel a warm grip tightening around you. Eyes wide, you unfocus on the paper, to look up. Somehow in your tiny melt down Mingyu got down from the platform.

He looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed. Jaw tense, “You were just gonna ruin it, weren’t you?” He asks you quietly.

You can’t help but knit your brows, a pained expression forming that matches the one in his eyes.

The charcoal clatters out of your hand, landing on the floor in broken pieces.

Tears start welling in your eyes, your bottom lip trembling. “You’re right,” You start shakily, “I don���t know… how to address anything unless I’m drawing.” You say weakly.

Mingyu’s eyes soften slightly, swallowing hard as the bright lights highlight the contour of throat bobbing. “Yeah, seems like it.” He replies carefully. You expected him to use this as a told you so, maybe give you a smug smile, like, I knew you weren’t over me.

But Mingyu was never like that anyways. No matter how much he craved your attention, he also wanted your peace of mind. A hard thing to ask from an artist like you.

His grip on your wrist softens, as he kneels down, getting eye level with you as you still sit on the art horse. Holding your hand in his, rubbing a thumb over the veins on the back of your hand gently.

“I miss you.” You finally muster, your eyes focused on his.

“I miss you too.” He responds back, before cracking a small smile.

You strain your brows into a furrow, blinking back the warm tears you naturally formed from the vulnerable moment. A shaky huff also coming out of you, as you decide to lean forward.

Inching your face closer, until the tip of your noses brush, Mingyu stiffening slightly as you shyly graze your lips against his lips. A small breath escaping his lips, fanning over yours before you finally part them.

Your lips against his — it was like home. Finding your way back after such a tumultuous and useless road. The warmth of his lips seeping into you, Mingyu as relieved as you are. His hands finding its way to the sides of your face, pulling you impossibly closer.

It only escalates, as you open your mouth wider to push your tongue against his, making Mingyu groan out as he meets you with similar enthusiasm.

He pulls you forward, off the art horse. Taking you down to the ground, maneuvering you until your back is against the hard floor. Covering you with his large frame, his weight pressing down on you in ways you were having such a hard time admitting you missed.

It was fast, and albeit messy and rushed. Like trying to make up for wasted time as you pull him close, hands wrapped around the back of his neck as your lips go numb, your teeth clashing.

You let out a whine, when Mingyu pulls away with a heavy breath, fighting against your attempts to pull him back for a kiss.

“Y/n — fuck, can we?” He asks hurriedly, his voice breathless. A look of want in his big eyes, but there was also a little responsibility.

First of all — anyone could walk into the studio any second. There was only a lunch break, sure, an hour. But at least half of it has passed.

As you take your bottom lip under your teeth, chewing at your swollen lip as you think. And Mingyu knows exactly what look you were giving him, and he wasn’t going to reject you. Not now.

He leans back in, crashing his lips against yours in a sloppy kiss, breath hot against yours, before moving to your jaw. Leaving open mouthed rushed kisses down your neck, as you move your hands down his back. Feeling the muscles you were forcing yourself to look away from during the whole first half of class.

Touching Mingyu was way better than just drawing him from afar. You’re sure on that.

He moves his hand down, to push your midi skirt up, bunching the fabric to your hips. Your legs exposed to the cold air of the studio, as he wastes no time to slide your panties to the side. Already wet and damp from the heavy making out, and partially to the adrenaline of being in such a risky place.

“Damn, already?” He says, with a slight tease to his voice, making you pinch his arm. He lets out a pained chuckle, before placing his thick fingers against yours core, a gasp escaping your lips.

It helped that he knew you so well already, your legs squirming around the sides of him as he runs his fingers through yours wet folds, his thumb circling your clit as he inserts two fingers in, stretching you out as you gasp, Mingyu attacking your neck with messy kisses as he gets you ready for him.

“Fuck, Gyu,” You whine, your eyes rolling back in pleasure as he curls his fingers, hitting the spongy flesh that makes you arch your back off of the floor.

You weren’t the only one worked up, Mingyu being bare this entire time. His dick pressing up against the inner of your thigh, hardening at the sounds of your pleasure.

Your hand shoots down to grab hold of him, helping him get hard as he lets out a moan, as you tighten your grip. Pumping him a few times, lining him up to you as he removes his hand from your entrance.

You both let out soft gasps as you hold his dick to swipe against you, coating him in your arousal, his tip leaking with precum.

He doesn’t even ask, he just knows, as he pushes in, filling you inch by inch. The friction from your pulled to the side panties, to the tight warm walls of your pussy, making him feel lightheaded with pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so tight baby,” He breathes, without even adjusting, he ruts into you roughly. Bottoming out as he knocks the wind out of you.

A whine escapes your throat, as you hold tightly around his shoulders, as Mingyu doesn’t slow his pace.

Its rough, its fast, and overall — desperate. The lewd sounds of flesh colliding echoing in the empty studio. Your mind going dumb at his fast pace, only focused on how he goes in, out. In, out.

The smell of his sweat, the way your hands run down his exposed body, all for you. He did this all for you. To get your attention, to get you back. God, does he even know how that makes you feel?

“Fuck, fuck,” He whines, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Already feeling a little fatigued from abusing your pussy so fast. But it was just too good, he missed it so much. So, so much. And he made it evident, as he pushes the back of your thighs higher to your chest, getting deep as he can. And fucking you like his life counted on it.

You feel the familiar build up of your orgasm, your walls tightening as you grip Mingyu’s shoulders. “Gyu, Gyu, I’m —“ You manage to choke out, as he moves his face from your neck to yours. Catching your cry with his mouth, drowning it as he kisses you messily.

You shudder, squirming under him as you feel the familiar high. Your body tingling with sensitivity and pleasure, as he overwhelms you with what can only be love.

He follows soon after, not being able to maintain his mouth to yours as he lets out a shaky grunt. Spilling inside you, his cum warm and filling, making your cheeks flush in contentment and relief.

He slows, stilling as you both catch your breaths. Pulling out of you with a reluctance. Pushing himself up, to lean back to sit. You follow as well, adjusting your skirt back as you push yourself up to your elbows.

Mingyu was a sight, as he always is. His tan skin glowing with a layer of sweat. The way his toned chest rises from catching his breath. The way his bangs are sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed with a rush of blood. A satisfied look on his face, as he sighs, licking his bottom lip as he looks at you.

You can’t help but smile, a warm one. As you gather yourself.

“Lets get you cleaned up before the second half. Where did you throw your robe?”

“Oh fuck. I don’t know. You got any other ones?”

[mywritersmind]

WINNING KISS - LN4

summary : lando isn’t used to being a human mirror, but when a pretty girls tells him to hunch down and let her fix her lipstick in the reflection of his glasses, he’s more than happy to oblige.

listen up : no warnings!!

word count : 750

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I can practically feel the music through my veins. The lights of the club are flashing and my friends are laughing and swinging shots back.

I won today. Singapore has been fucking amazing honestly. Besides the whole drowning in sweat thing.

“So…” Max Fewtrell claps a hand on my shoulder, “Taking a girl home tonight, winner?” He teases me as I roll my eyes and sip my drink, “What- You too tired?” he fakes a frown. I didn’t really want to go out tonight but decided it’s sort of a one in a lifetime thing.

“Go find your girlfriend, idiot.” I eye him.

He throws up his arms and laughs, “Gladly!” As he walks away I feel a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. I’m surprised who did it had such force for being so small.

A girl stands in front of me, a pencil in hand and for a second I think she’s going to ask for an autograph, “Bend down a bit!” She tugs on my shirt and I do as I'm told because I'm genuinely so confused and the pretty girl means business.

She takes the sunglasses from my head and pushes them over my eyes, looking directly into them and bringing the pencil to her lips.

The ‘pencil’, I now realize, it’s a makeup product and deposits a dark color to her lips as she uses me as her mirror.

As she’s stood in front of me, my eyes can’t help but analyze her. This club is stuffy and smoky but she’s so close I can see everything she has on.

She’s got messy brown hair, silver jewelry, a mini skirt, a fur jacket, and a white corset top. Something about her feels magnetic. She’s stunning.

My eyes go to her lips which she smacks together before pulling out a proper lipstick, as she runs the makeup over her lips I start to smile a bit. She finishes quickly and doesn’t pauses as she starts to place the makeup back in her back.

I slide the glasses down to hang around my neck, I see the recognition appear on her face, “Shit.” She says confidently, “You’re that guy!”

I laugh a bit, standing up straighter and looking down at her, “Nice to meet you too.”

“Sorry! Everyone’s been talking about you today!” My tongue runs over my teeth, smiling a bit, “Thanks for being my mirror. And- congrats, I guess?”

“Thank you. And no problem, I’d never deprive a pretty girl of her lipstick rights.” This makes her laugh and fuck I want to keep her laughing.

She gets a look in her eye, her arms behind her, and her eyes staring up at me, “Well I appreciate it. Like it?” I look at her lips again and I’m beginning to think this is a trick just to make me want to kiss her.

“I do. It suits you.” Her lips pull into a wide smile and she steps a bit closer. “You know- people are talking about me for a reason.” I say, building myself up a bit.

She squints, “Right… A win?” I nod, “You’re celebrating then?”

I nod again, “A bit boring though… if only there was a girl to make my night better.”

She scoffs, “Suppose you want a winning kiss then?” I eye her, sipping my drink once more. My eyes flick to her lips but she doesn’t stop looking at me.

“I mean- your lipstick would look great on me.” I say smugly as she stops herself from smiling, humming and nodding.

“Would it?” She says into my ear, the club getting louder with the music.

“Suppose we’ll have to check and see.” I say in her ear this time and when I pull back, I can tell she’s trying to figure me out.

She hums again, leaning in close and slipping her hand onto my neck. Her cool rings practically sting my hot skin. She turns my head slightly, I feel her stand taller to softly kiss my cheek.

When she pulls away, I’m smirking again, “Let me get your number.” I don’t even ask it as a question.

She pulls the lipliner out of her bag once more, uncapping it with her teeth and taking my arm. She scrolls the numbers slowly against my arm, holding me close.

When she’s done and there’s red numbers up my arm, she closes the product and smiles kindly, saying “Congratulations, winner.” before walking away.

[sillyboyjuno]

THE GREENS🗣🗣🗣🗣

whenever there's a bunch of objects who are similar/the same type of object i go "wow those guys siblings." and I'll do it again. mark my words. anyways here's the silly thangs<3 they're half siblings! same mama I thjnk.. don't ask about the surname it's just funny! also all of these are like. bfb/tpot era

PLEASEEEE REQUEST more of these guys I'm tryna get all the guys drawn like this at some point:3 and requests would help me sm !! more headcanons below

more bfdi humanized:

pen/pencil/marker , snowball/icy/book

tree:

- super duper nerd and dresses like it too.. at least he's fashionable about it. likes neutrals and natural colors.. light colors things :3

- he's slightly farsighted, so he uses glasses to help him out!

- probably smells like a spring breeze or some sort of concept.. that guy CLEAN

leafy:

- scars from her time in exile.. she remembers how she got each of them and will tell you the stories! [she's also accident prone to me so she's always got bandaids and bruises]

- dresses like a farmer kinda.. always jeans or active wear! likes tank tops a lot! keeps her hair up in little pigtails cuz her hair is so thick she needs ventilation to her neck so she doesn't overheat

- I personally think that leafy/firey is very cutes and also fireafy/coinpin is cutes too so idk! they're all cutesies.. that's why there's the small "polyamorous?" note in the bottom

grassy:

- hes a little guy to me.. like. he's just leafy's strange little kid brother and everyone silently questions why he is here😭 everyone kinda tries to be nice to him (except gb I guess).. snowball became his babysitter/brother figure in tpot :3

- most of his outfits are probably like.. minecraft shirt + cargo shorts + velcro shoes.. nothing more to say

- consistently getting dirty.. bro does not stay clean for long

[internetdaddy98]

Zugzwang

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: After a grueling ER shift, You and your partners in crime unwind at a rundown diner, swapping stories and sarcasm in the soft haze of exhaustion. The conversation veers toward Robby and the unresolved tension between you. Your friends see it clearly, not flirtation, but containment. Discipline. Restraint on the verge of collapse.

Word Count: 1.3 K

Content Warning: Medical procedures, blood, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times

The diner smelled like over-fried oil and the ghost of a thousand shifts.

You sat in a cracked vinyl booth with your legs tucked under you, still in scrubs that smelled faintly of antiseptic and someone else's blood. The ER shift had ended an hour ago, but none of you had the energy to go home yet. This was the unspoken ritual: decompress over fries, talk about the traumas like war stories, pretend like you weren’t already thinking about your next shift.

Santos was sprawled sideways in the booth across from you, her ponytail falling out in chaotic waves. She stirred her milkshake with one straw while sipping with another like it was a personal vendetta. Next to her, Whittaker methodically dissected his grilled cheese with the focus of a surgeon. Mel had a coloring book open on her lap, not hers, you were pretty sure it was Becca’s, and was gently filling in a page with a stubby red pencil.

Your fries were cold, but you didn’t care. The whole day still clung to your skin like static: Whitmore’s smirk, Robby’s voice, the feel of the defibrillator pads in your hands, the weight of everything unsaid.

“I swear,” Santos said between sips, “my intern tried to intubate through the esophagus and chart it as a win. Said, ‘I felt resistance, so I knew I was in.’ I had to physically stop myself from going into a fetal position.”

“Mine tried to order dilaudid on a patient with a known fentanyl allergy,” Mel said softly, her eyes still on her coloring. “But she said please, so I guess that’s something.”

“I’m gonna start carrying a spray bottle,” Santos muttered. “Like, ‘No. Bad intern. Chart right.’ Spritz.”

Whittaker finally looked up from his grilled cheese. “I think mine cried. But quietly. So, you know. Growth.”

You snorted, resting your chin in your hands. “We’re the mentors now. God help them.”

“God help us,” Santos said. “Also, Y/N.”

You looked up, met her raised eyebrow.

“What’s going on with you and Dr. Dad?”

Your stomach did a slow, traitorous turn. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. The energy is palpable. Like, nuclear-powered smolder. You can’t fake that kind of tension.”

Mel looked up from her page and nodded. “You do hover near each other. A lot.”

Whittaker popped a fry in his mouth and said, almost absently, “It’s not tension. It’s containment.”

You scoffed. “What?”

Whittaker shrugged. “You two don’t look like people flirting. You look like people holding back so hard it’s gonna hurt.”

You didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Santos leaned forward, milkshake abandoned. “Okay, so who’s making the first move? You or him? Because I have money on you, Sheridan.”

You played with your straw, not quite smiling. “You’re betting on me?”

“Hell yes,” she said. “You look calm, but I’ve seen you go full icicle when someone disrespects you. That’s not shyness. That’s control. Robby’s got the edge right now, but if you wanted to flip the power dynamic, you could.”

Mel tilted her head. “Do you want to?”

That stopped you. Not because you didn’t know the answer.

But because you did.

You sat back, watching the hum of the diner go on around you. A couple of night shift nurses were tucked into a booth in the corner. A med student was asleep face-down on a textbook by the counter. It was the kind of place where time stretched thin, where everything felt a little more honest under the flicker of cheap fluorescent lights.

You spoke slowly. “I don’t know where the line is anymore. Between admiration and... something else. Between learning from him and needing him. Between wanting to be like him, and wanting... him.”

Santos let out a low whistle. “That was poetic and deeply horny.”

Mel reached over and squeezed your arm gently.

Whittaker said, “You’re both too disciplined. Something’s gonna crack.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Because something had cracked. Earlier. In the lounge. When Robby looked at you like he knew exactly what you were holding back and didn’t push, but didn’t look away either.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet.

Mel and Whittaker peeled off first, whispering about 6 a.m. alarms and laundry. Santos hugged you hard before disappearing into the Lyft she’d been tracking for ten minutes.

And then it was just you. Streetlights casting long shadows. The weight of everything still unsaid pressing at the base of your throat.

Your apartment was quiet in the way only a place lived in by a solitary person could be. No shoes by the door but hers. No dishes left in the sink by a roommate or partner. The kind of silence that wasn’t loneliness exactly, but close enough to touch it, if you knew where to look.

You padded barefoot across polished walnut floors, flicking on the low amber glow of a corner lamp. The living room stretched wide, too wide for someone who barely had time to sit in it. Built-in shelves held rows of medical texts, a few old paperbacks, and one pristine crystal decanter that had never once been used.

The apartment was high-ceilinged, clean-lined, full of soft grays and dusky blues. Everything was intentional. Tasteful. Understated. The only thing out of place was the worn duffel bag she dropped by the door, and the faded hoodie she tugged over her head as she headed to the kitchen.

There was a warmth to the place that felt carefully curated, like the way you wore inexpensive watches despite the Cartier one hidden in your dresser. Like how you kept driving the ten-year-old Honda you’d bought in med school even though your parents had offered you a Tesla last Christmas.

You didn’t flaunt the money. That was part of it. That was you. The quiet edges. The control. The intention.

And tonight, that control was fraying at the seams.

The diner had been too loud, too fluorescent, too full of things you hadn’t said. You loved them, Santos with her relentless teasing, Mel with her soft steadiness, Whittaker with his surprising wisdom, but they didn’t know the weight you carried around Robby. They didn’t know what it felt like to look at a man and want something so badly it made your teeth ache, but still fear the line between want and ruin.

You sat at the wide granite counter, absently sipping cold tea you didn’t remember brewing. Your phone buzzed. A dinner receipt from Santos. A meme from Whittaker. Mel’s sweet “thanks for tonight 💛.”

And then you stared at the screen for a long time. At the contact you didn’t dare label as anything but Dr. Robinavitch.

Not Robby. Not yet.

You unlocked your phone.

Y/N: Thanks for backing me up today. Not just with Whitmore.

Your thumb hovered over the message like it might explode if you sent it.

Then: click.

Seconds passed. A minute. You held your breath.

Then the typing bubble.

Dr. Robinavitch: Always. You okay?

So simple. So him. A fortress of restraint, hiding that slow, dangerous burn underneath.

Y/N: I will be.

Another pause.

Three dots.

Then they vanished.

That was him, too.

Careful. Controlled. Afraid of letting anything slip.

But you didn’t want to be careful anymore. You didn’t want to let fear keep writing your story.

You stood up and walked to the windows that looked out over the city, glass and dark steel, blinking lights, rivers cutting through the quiet.

You were twenty-nine. Top of your class. Fourth-year resident at one of the busiest trauma centers in the country. You’d lost patients and family and parts of yourself you didn’t think you’d ever get back. You had survived all of it.

But this. This man. This feeling.

You weren’t sure you’d survive that. Not if you kept pretending you didn’t want to reach for it.

For him.

You leaned your forehead against the cool glass, let your eyes flutter shut, and whispered to the night, “I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of what I’ll do when he lets me in.”

And then you made a decision.

You weren’t going to push him. Not overtly. You weren’t reckless. You’d come too far to gamble everything.

But you were going to lean into it. See what happened if you stopped stepping back. If you held his gaze for a second too long. If your fingers brushed his when you handed him a chart. If your voice went just a little softer when it was just the two of you in a trauma room, and the adrenaline had faded, and the silence grew thick with the heat of almost.

You weren’t going to make the first move.

You were just going to make him want to.

And if that broke something?

So be it.

[amyzworldds]

heyy idk if requests are open but if they are can i request a wonwoo x reader where reader is super extroverted and hyper and kinda « adopts » wonwoo cause she wants them to be friends, but wonwoo being shy it takes him a while to be more open with her

i was just thinking about like maybe just some scenarios showing how the friendship (and eventual) relationship between them grows

btw can i be 🪼 anon? :)

Title: From Classmates to Soulmates

Masterlist | Part 2

Y/N, a vibrant solo artist, and Wonwoo, the reserved Seventeen member, share a bond that blossoms from high school friendship into something deeper. Her chaotic energy clashes with his quiet nature, but their connection—full of teasing, cat photos, and unspoken sparks—grows through years of laughter and challenges, proving opposites can be inseparable. Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Fluff

The fluorescent lights of Class 2-B flickered slightly, casting a soft glow over rows of desks. It was 2012, and Y/N, a new transfer student, plopped down into the only empty seat in the classroom—right next to Jeon Wonwoo, a lanky boy with glasses who was trying very hard to disappear into his textbook. She was a whirlwind of energy, her backpack covered in colorful pins, her hair tied with a bright scrunchie. He was... well, the human equivalent of a library’s quiet section.

“Hi! I’m Y/N! You’re my seatmate, right? Oh my gosh, this school is so big, I got lost twice already. Did you know the cafeteria has, like, three kinds of kimchi? Three!”

Wonwoo blinked, his pencil frozen mid-sentence. He glanced at her, then back at his book, hoping silence would make her stop. It didn’t.

“What’s your name? Wait, lemme guess... Minho? No, too common. Seokjin? Nah, you don’t look like a Seokjin. Oh! Are you a Wonwoo? That’s such a cool name!”

He sighed, adjusting his glasses. “...It’s Wonwoo.”

“I KNEW IT!” Y/N clapped, earning a few curious glances from classmates. “We’re gonna be best friends, Wonwoo. I can feel it. Do you like cats? Dogs? Both? I have a goldfish named Bubbles, but I’m thinking of getting a hamster. What do you think?”

“I think you should stop talking before we get in trouble,” he muttered, flipping a page he hadn’t read.

Too late. Their homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kim, spun around from the chalkboard. “Y/N! Wonwoo! If you two have so much to discuss, you can do it while cleaning the classroom after school!”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened as he shot Y/N a side-eye. She just grinned sheepishly. “Oops. Sorry, Wonwoo. I’ll make it up to you! I’ll bring snacks!”

He didn’t respond, but his ears were slightly pink. Great. Day one, and I’m already in trouble because of her.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Over the next few weeks, Y/N became Wonwoo’s personal tornado. She talked during class, doodled on the edges of his notes (he pretended to hate the little hearts and stars), and dragged him into her chaotic orbit. He was quiet, reserved, the kid who’d rather read manga in the corner than join a group. She was the opposite—a social butterfly who befriended everyone from the janitor to the school’s stray cat (which she named Captain Whiskers).

One rainy afternoon, they were stuck cleaning the classroom again—third time that month, thanks to Y/N’s chatter. Wonwoo was wiping down desks while Y/N balanced a broom like a tightrope walker.

“Wonwoo, look! I’m a circus star!” She wobbled, nearly knocking over a chair.

He caught it just in time, glaring. “Can you focus for five seconds? I’d like to go home before we’re seniors.”

“Pfft, you’re no fun.” She hopped down, twirling the broom. “But you secretly love this. Admit it. I make your boring life exciting.”

“You make my life a headache,” he deadpanned, but there was a tiny quirk to his lips. She noticed and gasped dramatically.

“Was that a smile? Jeon Wonwoo, are you warming up to me?”

“No.” He turned away, scrubbing a desk harder than necessary.

But she was right. Slowly, Wonwoo got used to her. She’d ramble about her trainee life at Pledis, her dreams of being a solo artist, her obsession with bubble tea. He’d listen, nodding or throwing in a dry comment that made her laugh. They were opposites—her loud chaos to his quiet calm—but somehow, it worked.

--------------------------------------------------------------

One day, during lunch, Y/N spotted Captain Whiskers outside the school gate, looking scruffier than usual. Her eyes welled up instantly.

“Wonwoo, look at him! He’s so skinny! We have to take him home!” She clutched his sleeve, tears streaming.

He froze, her hands gripping his arm like a koala. “Y/N, you can’t just adopt every stray you see. Your dorm will turn into a petting zoo.”

“But he’s lonely!” she wailed, burying her face in his shoulder. “What if he gets cold tonight? What if he’s hungry? Wonwoo, I can’t leave him!”

He sighed, patting her head awkwardly. “Stop crying. You’re getting my shirt wet.”

“You’re so mean,” she mumbled, voice muffled. “But you’ll help me, right? Pleeeease?”

He glanced at the scrawny cat, then back at her tear-streaked face. “Fine. But we’re not keeping him. We’ll find him a shelter.”

“You’re the best!” She hugged him tightly, and he stood there like a statue, cheeks flushing. “I’m naming him Wonwoo Junior!”

“Absolutely not.”

They spent the afternoon sneaking Captain Whiskers into the trainee dorms, only for Y/N to cry again when they handed him to a shelter. Wonwoo bought her ice cream to stop the waterworks, muttering about how she was “impossible.” She just grinned, linking her arm with his.

“You love me, admit it.”

“Keep dreaming.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

By their final year of high school, they were inseparable. Y/N was still a chatterbox, but Wonwoo didn’t mind as much. He’d even started talking more—well, for him. When Seventeen debuted in 2015, Y/N was their biggest cheerleader, sneaking into their practice room with snacks and hyping them up. Wonwoo pretended to be annoyed, but he always saved her a spot next to him.

“You’re gonna be famous, Wonwoo! I’m telling everyone I’m your best friend,” she’d say, stealing his water bottle.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he’d reply, but he’d let her keep the bottle.

When Y/N debuted as a solo artist in 2017, Wonwoo was there, quietly cheering from the crowd. She spotted him and nearly tripped on stage, waving like a maniac. Backstage, she tackled him in a hug.

“You came! I knew you would! Did you see my high note? Was I cool?”

“You were loud,” he teased, but his eyes were soft. “You did good.”

“That’s high praise from Jeon Wonwoo!” She poked his cheek. “One day, I’m gonna write a song about you.”

“Please don’t.”

She laughed, and he couldn’t help but smile. Somewhere along the way, her chaos had become his comfort. Her clinginess didn’t bother him anymore—it felt... nice. And when she grabbed his hand to drag him to her favorite café, he didn’t pull away.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wonwoo, now a full-fledged idol, was busier than ever, his introverted self buried under choreography and mic checks. But no amount of chaos could keep Y/N away.

The practice room smelled of sweat and determination, mirrors fogging up as Seventeen ran through their routine for the tenth time. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her backpack stuffed with snacks, watching with wide eyes. She clapped wildly after every run-through, even when the members stumbled.

“You guys are AMAZING!” she shouted, bouncing to her feet as the music stopped. “Hoshi, that spin? Iconic. Seungkwan, your vocals? I’m deceased. And Wonwoo, you’re... you’re just so cool!”

Wonwoo, catching his breath, shot her a look—half-exasperated, half-amused. “Can you lower your volume? I’m trying to focus.”

“Focus? You just nailed that part! Take the compliment, Jeon!” She skipped over, holding out a water bottle and a small towel like she was his personal assistant.

Mingyu, wiping his face, smirked. “Y/N, what’s this? Are you Wonwoo’s babysitter now?”

“Or his manager?” DK chimed in, grinning. “You’ve been here every day this week.”

Y/N stuck out her tongue. “I’m his cheerleader, thank you very much. Someone’s gotta keep his grumpy self hydrated.”

Wonwoo took the bottle, muttering, “I can get my own water.” But he didn’t push the towel away when she dabbed at his forehead, earning a chorus of “ooohs” from the members.

“Y/N, you’re spoiling him,” Vernon teased, leaning on Seungcheol’s shoulder. “He’s gonna expect this treatment forever.”

“Good!” she declared, plopping down beside Wonwoo. “He deserves it. Right, Wonwoo?”

He just sighed, sipping his water, but his ears were pink—a detail not lost on Jeonghan, who whispered to Joshua, “Ten bucks says they’re dating by next year.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N’s visits became a ritual. She’d barge into the practice room with convenience store kimbap or sneak in bubble tea, chattering nonstop while Wonwoo listened (or pretended not to). Sometimes, she’d join their breaks, challenging Hoshi to impromptu dance-offs or roping Seungkwan into karaoke battles. Her chaos lit up the room, and even Wonwoo’s quiet presence seemed brighter with her around.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, the members sprawled across the floor, exhausted. Y/N, somehow still buzzing with energy, started a game of truth or dare. When it was her turn, she picked dare and ended up doing a dramatic reenactment of Mingyu’s part in Adore U, complete with exaggerated winks.

The room erupted in laughter, but Wonwoo just watched, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Man, Y/N, you’re so loud,” Woozi said, rubbing his temples. “How does Wonwoo deal with you? You’re like... a human firecracker, and he’s—��

“A library book?” Seungcheol offered, smirking.

“Exactly!” Woozi laughed. “Seriously, Wonwoo, how’d you two even become friends?”

Wonwoo shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “She talked. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Rude!” Y/N gasped, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. “You love my talking. Remember when I saved you from that boring history project? I did all the presenting!”

“You got us a C because you kept going off-script,” he deadpanned.

“But it was fun, right?” She grinned, nudging his shoulder. He didn’t answer, but his smile said enough.

The members exchanged glances. Dino whispered to Vernon, “Are they... always like this?”

“Yup,” Vernon whispered back. “It’s like watching a rom-com, but they’re too dumb to notice.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Fast forward to 2017. Y/N’s solo debut was finally here, her single Starlight climbing the charts. The room was a flurry of stylists and nerves, but Y/N was her usual self—chatting with everyone, fixing her mic pack, and sneaking candy from the snack table. In the crowd, Wonwoo stood near the back, blending in with a cap pulled low. He didn’t cheer like her loudest fans, but his eyes never left the stage.

When she hit her final note, the venue roared. Y/N scanned the crowd, spotted him, and nearly fumbled her wave, grinning like an idiot. Backstage, she tackled him in a hug before he could escape.

“You came! I knew you would!” she squealed, arms locked around him. “Did you hear the crowd? Did I slay that high note?”

“You were loud,” he said, but his voice was soft, proud. “You did good.”

“Good? That’s it?” She poked his chest. “Jeon Wonwoo, I need excellent. Phenomenal. I’m a star now!”

“You’re a headache,” he corrected, but he didn’t pull away, letting her cling as long as she wanted.

Fans had noticed their closeness over the years—clips of Y/N at Seventeen’s events, Wonwoo at her debut, their playful banter in old vlogs. Online, they were “the ultimate besties,” with fans gushing over their friendship. But to those who knew them, it was... different.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, at a small celebratory dinner with Seventeen and Y/N’s team, the teasing hit full force. Y/N was recounting her stage mishap—nearly tripping on a cable—when Mingyu leaned over.

“Wonwoo, be honest,” he said, smirking. “You were ready to run onstage and catch her, weren’t you?”

Wonwoo choked on his soda. “What? No.”

“Liar!” DK laughed. “You were staring at her like she hung the moon.”

Y/N, mid-bite of tteokbokki, waved it off. “He’s just supportive! That’s what friends do, right, Wonwoo?”

“Right,” he mumbled, eyes on his plate. But his hand brushed hers under the table when he passed her a napkin, and she didn’t move away. Neither did he.

Jeonghan, ever the instigator, leaned back. “Friends, huh? You two act like you’re married half the time. When’s the wedding?”

The table erupted, and Y/N laughed, loud and forced. “Pfft, me and Wonwoo? That’s like pairing a cat with a tornado!”

“You’re not wrong,” Wonwoo said dryly, earning a playful smack on his arm.

But later, when they walked to the convenience store for ice cream, the air felt heavier. Y/N rambled about her next single, but her usual energy was tinged with something else. Wonwoo was quieter than usual, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” she said suddenly, stopping under a streetlight. “We’re good, right? Like... this—” She gestured between them. “It’s fine?”

He looked at her, heart thudding. The spark had been there for years—her hugs that lingered, his glances she pretended not to notice. But saying it out loud? That risked everything.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We’re good.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Cool. Besties forever, then.”

“Forever,” he echoed, ignoring the ache in his chest. They bought their ice cream, and she linked arms with him on the walk back, chattering again. He listened, like always, because her chaos was still his favorite sound—even if he wasn’t ready to admit what else he felt.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Years have passedpast and the spark between Y/N and Wonwoo wasn’t just a flicker anymore—it was a flame neither could ignore. For Y/N, it was the way her heart raced when he smiled at her dumb jokes, or how she caught herself staring when he adjusted his glasses during late-night chats. For Wonwoo, it was the warmth of her presence, the way her chaos made his world feel... complete. But admitting it? That was a wall neither dared climb.

Y/N, ever the overthinker, convinced herself it was just their history talking. We’ve been friends since high school. Of course I feel weirdly attached. It’s not... that. She’d lie awake, replaying moments—her tackling him in hugs, him brushing hair from her face during her debut jitters. It’s normal. Totally normal. But the more she thought about it, the more she panicked. What if she confessed and he didn’t feel the same? What if it broke them? Wonwoo was her safe space, the one person she could be her loud, clingy, unfiltered self with. Losing him wasn’t an option.

So, she did the only thing she could think of: she pulled back.

--------------------------------------------------------------

It started small. No more facetime calls at 2 am to ramble about her day. No more spamming him with photos of stray cats or glittery coffee drinks she found on the street. No more bursting into Seventeen’s practice room with snacks and her trademark grin. When she did visit, she kept it brief, chatting with everyone instead of hovering around Wonwoo like before.

One afternoon, in the Pledis practice room, Y/N dropped by with a bag of tangerines—her excuse for showing up. Seventeen was mid-break, sprawled across the floor, sweaty and joking.

“Y/N! You’re alive!” Hoshi called, snatching a tangerine. “We thought you forgot us.”

“Pfft, never,” she laughed, tossing one to Seungkwan. “Just been busy. Soloist life, you know?”

Wonwoo, leaning against the mirror, watched her. She was her usual bright self, but something was off. She hadn’t looked at him once. No towel, no water bottle, no teasing jab about his dance moves. Just... distance.

“You staying for practice?” Mingyu asked, peeling his tangerine.

“Nah, gotta run,” she said, already inching toward the door. “Got a variety show taping soon. See you guys later!”

She waved, and just like that, she was gone. Wonwoo stared at the door, his chest tight. Seungcheol nudged Jeonghan, whispering, “She didn’t even talk to him.”“Yup,” Jeonghan murmured back. “Trouble in paradise.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N’s new distraction was a variety show, Star Buddies, where idols teamed up for goofy challenges. She’d been cast alongside NCT’s Jaehyun, a guy with a warm smile and an easy laugh. He was kind, talented, and stupidly charming—someone anyone would click with. They bonded over shared snacks and her endless chatter, and soon, they were texting about dog memes and grabbing coffee between shoots.

“Jaehyun, look at this puppy!” Y/N squealed one day, showing him her phone during a break. “Should I adopt him?”

“You’d adopt the whole shelter if you could,” Jaehyun teased, chuckling. “But yeah, he’s cute. Go for it.”

She grinned, but her mind wandered to Wonwoo—how he’d roll his eyes and mutter about her turning her dorm into a zoo. She shook it off, typing a reply to Jaehyun instead. He’s nice. Fun. Safe. No butterflies, no panic. Just... normal.

But Wonwoo? He noticed everything. Her Instagram stories with Jaehyun—laughing over ice cream, posing with silly props on set. Her texts slowed to a trickle, her visits even rarer. He’d scroll through her posts, jaw tight, telling himself it was fine. She’s busy. She’s allowed to have other friends. But the sight of Jaehyun’s name in her stories twisted something in his gut.

One night, during a late dinner with the members, Mingyu brought it up. “Yo, Wonwoo, you seen Y/N’s stories? She’s hanging out with that NCT guy a lot. Jaehyun, right?”

Wonwoo’s chopsticks paused mid-air. “Yeah. So?”

“Just saying,” Mingyu grinned, oblivious to the tension. “They look cozy.”

“They’re on a show together,” Wonwoo said flatly, shoving rice in his mouth. “It’s work.”

DK raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but she’s not blowing up your phone anymore, is she? When’s the last time she crashed practice?”

Wonwoo didn’t answer, and the table went quiet. Woozi, ever blunt, sighed. “You two are idiots. Just talk to her before she actually moves on.”“There’s nothing to talk about,” Wonwoo muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N wasn’t blind. She felt the shift too—how Wonwoo’s replies were shorter, how he didn’t tease her back like he used to. It hurt, but she told herself it was for the best. If I keep my distance, these feelings will fade. We’ll go back to normal. But normal without Wonwoo felt like a song missing its melody.

One evening, after a Star Buddies taping, she and Jaehyun grabbed dinner at a quiet café. He was telling a story about Taeyong’s latest cooking disaster, and she laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“You okay?” Jaehyun asked, tilting his head. “You seem... distracted.”

“Oh, nah, I’m good!” she lied, stirring her iced tea. “Just tired. Long day.”

He nodded, not pushing. “Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. You’re fun to hang out with, Y/N.”

“Thanks, Jaehyun. You’re pretty cool too.” She smiled, but her mind screamed Wonwoo. Always Wonwoo.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Seventeen’s dorm was abuzz with their latest comeback prep, but the members couldn’t ignore Wonwoo’s mood. He was quieter than usual—no small feat for him. During a break, Vernon caught him staring at his phone, Y/N’s latest story paused on a clip of her and Jaehyun high-fiving.

“Dude, just call her,” Vernon said, tossing him a water bottle. “You’re miserable.”

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo said, pocketing his phone.

“You’re not,” Seungkwan cut in, arms crossed. “And neither is she. We’ve known you guys forever. You think we can’t tell you’re both acting weird?”

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What am I supposed to do? Stop her from living her life? She’s... she’s Y/N. She makes friends with everyone.”

“Yeah, but she’s not this with everyone,” Jeonghan said, leaning over. “She’s only ever been that clingy, that loud, that Y/N with you. And now she’s pulling away. You really think it’s because she’s over you?”

Wonwoo didn’t answer, but Jeonghan’s words stuck. He saw it—her forced smiles when she did visit, the way she avoided his gaze. He felt it—the emptiness where her chaos used to be. And Jaehyun? That was just salt in the wound.

--------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, Y/N was at a pet store, snapping a pic of a fluffy puppy to send to Jaehyun. Her finger hovered over Wonwoo’s name instead. She missed him—his dry humor, his steady presence, the way he’d roll his eyes but still listen to her ramble. This is dumb. I’m making it worse. She pocketed her phone, heart heavy.

Across town, Wonwoo sat in the studio, lyrics open but untouched. His phone buzzed—a group chat notification, not her. He opened their old messages, scrolling through her silly cat pics and voice notes. She’s slipping away, and I’m just... letting her.

“Hyung,” Dino said, poking his head in. “You good? You’ve been staring at that screen for, like, an hour.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo lied, closing his phone. “Just thinking.”

But he wasn’t just thinking. He was realizing that losing her noise—her light—hurt more than admitting how he felt ever could.

--------------------------------------------------------------

an: Hi, 🪼anon ! Sorry this is late—I got busy with my integration paper, hehe. And sure, you can be 🪼 anon hehe! Also, I hope I got your request right, huhu. Btw, thank you for requesting! I think this is the very first request not connected to the 14th member HAHAHHA!

[sweetieviktor]

"it's the tradition", feat. viktor.

summary: it's christmas in runeterra and couples are sharing kisses under the mistletoe.

word count: 1.000. (yes! exactly 1k im happy with it :]

content warning: just fluff as always! :DD (written with s1 viktor in mind!!!

author notes: ITS 5AM AND IVE WRITTEN 2 FICS IN A DAY, maybe im going to die but fuck it we ball. love viktor and love xmas, i wish i could use sweaters but in brazil december is sooo hot but yeah, here it is a lil something for the holidays. hope u like it!! :)))

whenever some holiday approaches, piltover academy is adorned in it's colour by students. it's december and the halls are decorated with reds and greens all the way, bringing joy to those who look up and see the fairy lights blinking slowly to them. christmas is coming, and so is winter.

everyone is using their thickest coats, but there's still some people who are cold, even if they are holding hot drinks to warm up both their hands and their body, or if they are rubbing their arms, creating some friction that could maybe help it, or sharing kisses under the mistletoe meticulously placed on the tree near the entrance of the academy, which have all kind of things hanging on it. some letters addressed to santa, little brilliant baubles made in all type of materials you could think of, red bows and colorful lights, all made by it's students.

you wanted to spend your day like this, enjoying over your partner's warmth under the mistletoe. well, life isn't fair. he was already working and you needed to work too, but maybe you could bring him some sweet milk and cookies on your lunch break, right?

so once the clock hitted midday, you walked to the cafeteria, the same one you and viktor got out on your first date, and ordered enough cookies for both of you. the women on the other side of the counter packed them to you, putting the little bag on your right hand, while you carried the cup of sweet milk on the other. finally, you got out, hands full, hoping that you could bring him some of the christmas spirit when leaving those in the lab.

when you made it to the academy again, it was even more crowded than earlier, students going in and out, chatting and joking around, throwing snowballs at each other and playing in the snow. and again, the couples kissing under the mistletoe. and all you could think of was him. oh, how you missed his kisses. so you hurried up, the flashy holiday themed colors in the halls blending together in an indistinguishable blur.

once you reached his lab, you knocked on the door, anxiously waiting for an answer. you could feel how your heart thumped against your ribs, maybe it's the nervousness or just because you runned all the way to come here in time. “come in,” was all you could hear from inside.

you turned the door knob, pushing it so you could enter the lab. he was hunched over his desk, but once he looked past his shoulder, realizing you were the one who got in, his golden eyes immediately lighted up, just like the fairy lights, but shined even brighter when he seemed the baked goods you carried, then turning again to his work, “just wait a bit, i will finish this, ehh- hopefully soon.”

you came from behind him, leaving both the bag and the cup over his desk, “i know these are your favorites,” you put your hand on his shoulder, “and it's my break now, but soon i need to get back to work,” his hand stopped, no longer making calculations. he looked up at you, then at the papers in front of him, thinking if he should or not give in.

sighing, he let the pencil over the papers. you knew he would keep working if you didn't say it. “i guess i could give myself a break, then,” the corners of his mouth quirking up while he reached for the bag, opening it and letting the smell of the cookies bathe the place, bringing coziness alongside it. he shoved his hand on the bag, picking one up and biting onto it, humming softly when it melted on his tongue, then bringing the almost half cookie to your lips, only to put away and eat it himself.

he was laughing loudly, keeping a hand over his mouth, to prevent any crumbs from coming out. “you ain't fair,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. you knew he was just joking, but you wanted to eat too, “i brought those so we both could eat. together!”

“i know, i know!”, he said, getting the cup of sweet milk and taking a sip of it, “but it's fun to tease you. can't help it,” he shrugged, looking at your pouty expression turning into one of anger. picking another cookie, he proceeded to feed you first, your frown immediately disappearing. he was trying to not laugh again, but he couldn't contain it, as he did so, soon the frown came back to your face.

“stop making fun of me and let me eat, for jannas's sake,” you also couldn't keep your smile from growing, it was such a good atmosphere that, even if you were mad at him for stealing your cookie and laughing at you, you couldn't be mad for longer than thirty seconds.

you were laughing with him, happy with how your lunch was going, eating and talking, so busy with everything that you didn't see him fidgeting, looking for something inside his jacket pocket. once there was no more food nor milk, he cleaned his hands, bringing one over you both, holding something up. a mistletoe.

you scoffed, running your hand over your face, “really, viktor?”, you were astonished, he truly got one of those just he could have an excuse to kiss you?

“well, it's the tradition, isn't it?”, he grinned, placing his free hand on your waist, bringing you closer, “any person who's under the mistletoe must kiss, it's correct?”

“yes, absolutely correct,” you put both hands on each side of his face, kissing his lips softly, tasting the sugar on his mouth. “but you taste like milk and cookies,” you kissed him again, just to make sure you got it right, “maybe next year i will bring you more of these, so we could kiss under the mistletoe again.”

“oh, christmas may be my favorite holiday now.”

[uzumaki-rebellion]

A Daughter's Plan

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black Female OC

Warning(s): Pure Fluff. Single Dad. Girl Dad energy. Terry's POV. Low angst.

Summary: Terry Richmond is a lonely single dad caring for his ten-year-old daughter, Pilar. When Pilar's mother re-marries and moves overseas to start a new job and family, the pre-teen thinks her dad needs to find someone for himself, too. Unbeknownst to Terry, his clever daughter has her sights set on the new neighbor, Allegra, who might be the perfect match.

Word count: 7,481

"Isn't she pretty

Truly the angel's best

Boy, I'm so happy

We have been heaven blessed"

Stevie Wonder—"Isn't She Lovely?"

Terry Richmond heard the familiar rolling sound of his ten-year-old daughter's skateboard crossing over into the cul-de-sac of their gated townhome neighborhood. He could always pick out the unique sound of her board's ka-kump, ka-kump, ka-kump rhythm compared to her school buddies as they raced each other home.

Pilar always did a few kick flip tricks by Mr. Rhea's property before she jumped the curb and circled past a speed bump near Mrs. Purdue's home. While hand sanding a rocking chair, that he made for his pregnant sister, Terry paused.

He didn't hear Pilar's skateboard anymore.

Her crew of three friends whizzed past his open garage door toward their homes, but Terry didn't see his only child roll up to greet him with her angelic smile and chaotic energy. He lifted his protective goggles and wiped his hands on his work apron. Still no sign of her.

He strode out of the garage to take a peek and he noticed her lingering by their mailbox, still wearing her protective helmet and staring across the wide street. A furniture van blocked the driveway of the townhome facing across their property. A Black woman in her late twenties or early thirties directed two burly movers to carry a brand new sofa covered in plastic through her front door. The cute bob and conservative pastel colors of her sweater and pencil skirt had him guessing she was a teacher, or worked in corporate.

He glanced at Pilar who kept her dark brown eyes laser-focused on the recent addition to their quiet corner of the world. She chewed on her lip and rolled her board back and forth with her left foot. The new neighbor bought the house of Pilar's best friend since kindergarten. Little Leslie Gardner left Ville Broussard, Louisiana a year ago, and her old house stood empty for nine months until the For Sale sign finally came down three months ago. Terry knew that Mr. Gardner put a pretty penny into renovating the place before putting it on the market, and the expense of the renovation drove the price up.

The woman across the street probably spent over two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the two-bedroom property. Pilar pretended to dig in the mailbox, knowing he had already gotten the mail, and stared at the woman. From that distance, he couldn't tell if Pilar was still upset about Leslie moving or if she was upset that a stranger was moving into her bestie's old home.

"Pilar," he called out.

His daughter looked his way, and so did the woman across the street.

Whoa.

Terry never got a full view of the neighbor before. He always caught sideways glances or the back of her head. But the full frontal turned out to be something else. She looked like a gorgeous Black Barbie doll. He peeped her figure a few days ago when she first showed up in form-fitting pale green sweatpants and a matching hoodie. The fall weather brought out the layers, but she must've ignored the forecast because she walked around double-cheeked up in sportswear not designed for cooler temperatures.

Miss Neighbor turned her attention back to the interior of her home and Pilar ambled over, carrying her skateboard. She pulled off her skateboard helmet.

"Hey munchkin," he said, ruffling her thick two-toned curls pulled back with a light blue scrunchie. From the roots to just above the tips, Pilar's hair was dark brown. The ends had turned their annual summer-in-the-sun reddish brown that matched her skin tone. She looked exactly like his oldest sister Brianna and had her spirited personality, too.

Pilar's down-turned lips reflected a little 'tude.

"I don't see any kids," Pilar said.

She sounded bummed.

"Checking out the neighbor, huh?"

"She's pretty. Do you think she's pretty, Dad?"

"She is very attractive."

"Very?" Pilar said with a smug grin.

"Don't read anything into that."

"We should go say hi."

"She's busy with furniture. Let her get settled in."

He guided Pilar into their home through the garage, and she dumped her board and helmet by the dinette table. She washed her hands in the kitchen sink and he pulled a PB&J sandwich on a plate and a Capri Sun from the fridge, placing them on the table for her after-school snack.

The landline rang, and he answered it.

"Hi Terry, is Pilar in yet?"

His ex wife's voice sounded perky and happy.

"Yeah, hold on.'"

He carried the cordless from the living room into the kitchen and handed it to Pilar.

"It's your mom."

Pilar's face brightened, and she chatted away on the overseas call. Terry returned to the garage and began sanding the armrest of the rocking chair. He swept sawdust on the ground and closed the garage door after he finished.

Back in the kitchen, he rinsed his hands. An uneaten sandwich remained on the kitchen table without Pilar in sight. He looked in their living room and didn't find her there.

"Pilar?"

Terry climbed the stairs to the second floor and found his daughter weeping on her bed, her face buried in a yellow Big Bird pillow.

"What's wrong?"

He sat his big body on her twin bed, and she shook her head on the pillow. He laid a hand on her back.

"Babygirl, what is it?"

"Mom isn't coming back for Christmas. She eloped with that man in Italy and they plan on flying me out there for a boat cruise instead of coming to the lake like she promised. They'll have a big party in place of a wedding in Rome next July."

Pilar never addressed her new step-father by his name, Bryson. It was always "that man" despite her mother dating him for two years. Bryson was east coast respectability. A Black Archon Boulé with a prestigious prep school background and long family money. The complete opposite of Terry's country boy/military roots. He drove a 2015 F-250 truck and drank beer. Bryson drove a 2025 Jaguar and sipped Chardonnay.

Yolanda leveled up to the Black bougie life she always wanted. Terry knew in his heart that Yolanda would never be happy building a life with him. They were both twenty and naïve, getting married the moment they found out Pilar was conceived. He quit college and joined the marines to support them. Yolanda worked as a flight attendant after their daughter was born, so Terry stayed the primary caretaker, training other marines and not deploying out of the country.

Yolanda wanted more out of life than he could provide financially and asked for a divorce when Pilar turned six. Both their families had been shocked when she granted Terry primary custody of their only child. Yolanda wanted to travel the world and her career let her do that. She eventually settled in Atlanta, working for Delta. Pilar adjusted to being shuttled back and forth for holidays and summers.

Then Bryson popped up, freeing Yolanda from the working class. He was older, established, and child-free. Also very generous with his money.

Terry had made arrangements to send Pilar abroad for a lavish wedding the following summer as her mother's flower girl. She and Bryson had planned to spend the Christmas holiday with the entire Richmond family so that they could all meet the new man who would be connected to them through Pilar. Christmas was going to be the rare treat of being with both her parents for a holiday. The Richmond clan had reserved fancy cabins by a lake for a week and planned on turning it into a family reunion of sorts. Yolanda offered to arrange her Christmas plans for the reunion so Pilar wouldn't miss out on seeing all of her cousins from all over the states. Now she eloped and switched up on their child three months in advance.

Terry kept his anger in check in front of Pilar. He'd call Yolanda when his daughter was back in school and give her a smooth cuss out. He offered to switch Thanksgiving for Christmas because it was important for Pilar to experience a big reunion for the first time on his side of the family.

Pilar turned her head from the pillow. Big, wet eyes stared at him. Her bottom lip trembled and his heart squeezed in his chest. His daughter was the light of his life. Watching her expectations crumble hurt his soul. Pilar came first before anything, and that was the difference between him and Yolanda. Their daughter became a secondary consideration with her. His ex wasn't a terrible person. He loved her once a long time ago. She was ambitious, energetic, pretty, and gave him a perfect child. Yolanda just wasn't cut out to be a mother saddled with the responsibility of putting her daughter's emotional needs first. To Yolanda, whisking Pilar off to Rome probably sounded like giving her child the best in life. Bryson was an American Express Exec for their Italian branch and lived in a lavish home with staff and chauffeurs. Yolanda shopped, dined, and played tennis every day in luxury. She wanted Pilar to experience that lifestyle. In his own way, Terry wanted their daughter to have that chance, too. But without pulling the rug from under Pilar. She set her heart on having them all together for once since their divorce.

"Tell you what…I'll talk to her and try to convince them to come for Christmas."

"She said the cruise is their early honeymoon and they want me to go so we can bond as a new family. I already have a family!"

Pilar buried her face in his chest, and he stroked her hair.

"How about we go to Cholly's Burgers for dinner and you can mope over a double cheeseburger and a big chocolate malt?"

Pilar sniffled and wiped her nose.

"Okay, I'll go…but I can't guarantee that I'll feel better."

"Deal," he said.

He left her alone in her room and went down to the kitchen and put her sandwich and juice away. Checking emails on his smartphone, he spent the next couple of hours watching TV and then ironed Pilar's clothes for school. He showered and called his daughter down for their dinner trip. Outside, their new neighbor carried some things from her cream-colored Mercedes S-Class in the driveway.

"Excuse me," the woman called as Pilar jumped into his truck's passenger side.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Hi, I'm Allegra…new neighbor…um, can you tell me what day the trash and recycling go out?"

"Thursdays!" Pilar called out.

His daughter had her head stuck out of the window with a big grin on her face.

"Yeah, Thursdays. They normally roll through around eleven a.m.," he said.

"Great, thanks."

"I'm Terry, and this is my daughter, Pilar—"

"Are you married? Have kids?" Pilar asked.

Allegra smiled politely, holding a small box. Her eyes bounced from Pilar's to his, then back to Pilar.

"I'm not married. No kids."

Pilar whipped her head around to look at Terry. He ignored her.

"Have a good evening," he said.

He climbed into his truck and started it up.

"You're really not good at finding a date, Dad."

"What are you talking about, little girl?"

He backed out of their driveway and headed toward the main road that led to the highway.

"A single, beautiful woman with a fancy car asked you about trash day. She could've called her realtor or looked it up online."

"We were right there in front of her. It's quicker to ask a neighbor. That woman is not looking to date people she lives around. Besides, she saw me with you, so she'll think I'm married with a family already."

"She'll know pretty soon that it's just you and me."

"I don't think most upwardly mobile Black women are interested in men that already have children nowadays."

It took them twenty minutes to arrive at the burger joint, and Pilar's mood lifted considerably. They talked about her upcoming soccer game and she slurped down her chocolate malt content with life once again.

Back home, he washed and braided her hair in two cornrows, tying it down with a black satin hair scarf so he wouldn't have to do her hair in the morning. Their evening bedtime routine went off without a hitch and he allowed her to watch a cartoon before she went to sleep in her room.

The next couple of weeks were normal in the Richmond household. He'd ride his bike in the morning to take Pilar to school, following behind her as she skateboarded ahead of him with her classmates. Later, he'd ride his bike over to check on the restaurant he invested in. He spent a few days with his financial advisor and moved some money around that he received from a police settlement. His current financial status allowed him to enjoy not having the worries of steady employment until he found something he wanted to do. He put funds in stocks that did well, paid off the townhouse, and Yolanda's monthly child support covered the rest for Pilar. His woodworking kept him busy during the afternoon while Pilar was in school. But once she was home, he went straight into daddy mode. Soccer Dad duty, carpooling to games, checking homework, cooking and cleaning, fixing things at his parent's house and running their errands…they all filled his time.

Once a week he went bowling with friends and drank at bars, chasing a little tail, but not really trying to catch much. His three older sisters rotated keeping Pilar with their kids so he could have some adult time. The last few "dates" he had were with single moms who complained about their ex-husbands or ex boyfriends. He thought one woman named Michaela would be a long-term situation, but she reconciled with her boyfriend and moved to Dallas.

After a Saturday soccer practice, Pilar came to him and asked if she could bake some cookies for a school party. It was nearing Halloween. He pulled out some easy to bake pre-made Tollhouse cookie dough from the freezer. All Pilar had to do was place the small chocolate chip cookie dough squares onto a baking sheet and use the stove timer to keep them from burning.

He kicked up his feet to watch the news and when the stove buzzer went off, he trotted into the kitchen to make sure Pilar didn't burn herself by taking them out of the oven with the oven mits. She only baked a dozen.

"Shouldn't you bake more for your class?" he asked.

"It's a potluck, so people are just bringing whatever to share."

After they cooled, she used a spatula to scoop them onto a decorative plate of pumpkins and fall leaves. He covered them with plastic wrap.

"Maybe you should put them in some Tupperware," he suggested.

"No, this is good."

He left her to handle her party business.

Terry didn't think anything about the cookies until three days later when Allegra showed up at his open garage door. His electric sander and earplugs prevented him from hearing her approach. He turned toward the street and almost jumped, not expecting someone to be standing near his truck watching him. Shutting off the sander, he pulled out the earplugs and stared at her with his goggles on.

"Sorry to startle you…Terry…right?"

He nodded.

"I came over to bring you back your cookie plate. That was such a thoughtful housewarming gift. I ate every single chocolate chip cookie. Perfectly gooey in the center the way I like! The note you wrote was really sweet, too. Thank you so much."

"I'm sorry?" he said in confusion.

Terry pushed up his goggles. Allegra handed him the plate that wasn't empty. On it were slices of banana bread. He looked at the baked goods, then back at her.

"To show my appreciation for the cookies…I just made it last night. I didn't put nuts in it because I don't know if anyone in your family is allergic to nuts."

"No, we aren't."

"I'll remember that."

Allegra's pretty eyelashes curled over naturally, and her lips had just enough red lipstick to give her plump lips a rosy tint. She was dream girl material, and the cut and style of her bob reminded him of something the old Black starlets wore in the sixties, but it looked contemporary too with a soft flip on the ends. Terry became lost in her face and she seemed equally lost in his, her gaze never leaving his eyes. That was one of the physical traits that women always said they loved about him. The green, lion-like eyes. She looked up at him and their size difference was quite obvious. She was petite-chic, the cut and color of her clothes making her seem taller far away. Allegra was shorter than his ex wife. He felt like a big giant standing next to her. She smelled so good. Her perfume hinted at jasmine in the summer.

"My daughter and I will enjoy this. Thanks for bringing it over with the plate," he said.

Allegra smiled and his chest caved in. Was it possible for her to be even more attractive with a smile on her face?

She glanced around his makeshift workshop.

"Woodworking? You do this for a living?" she asked.

He stepped aside to let her see the dining cabinet he built for another neighbor.

"Actually, it's a hobby of mine."

"Hobby? This is true craftsmanship."

He touched the side of the cabinet.

"I learned it from my dad and kept at it in highschool."

"If I paid you, could you make me a couple of custom bookshelves?"

"What type of wood?"

"Not too expensive."

"I can make some maple wood shelves and stain them to look expensive.'

"I like your way of thinking. When I get the time, I'll measure my walls and let you know what I need."

"Still settling in?"

"My god, I haven't unpacked all of my boxes. I'm still eating takeout because I dread unpacking everything in my kitchen. My new job keeps me busy and I'm usually too tired by the end of the day. I should be unpacking right now, but I have to leave for an event soon."

She sighed and pushed back a flipped curl on her forehead.

"I better let you get back to work. Again…thank you for the sweet welcoming gesture."

Allegra left him alone in the garage and he watched her walk back across the street to her place. She had a little sway in her hips as she walked in her well-fitted navy blue dress pants and structured white button-down shirt. The light pink cardigan sweater tied around her shoulders was such a classy touch, along with her chunky blocked-heeled pumps.

He looked down at his dust-laden ripped jeans and brown work apron. Not too shabby, but he almost wanted to spruce up. He took the plate into the kitchen and checked the time. Pilar would be there in half an hour. He wanted to know what she wrote in that note to Allegra.

Running a hot shower, he cleaned his body and stared at his reflection in the mirror afterward. Time for a fresh line-up. His facial hair looked a little ungroomed. He took time to shave and then changed into better jeans and a fitted long sleeve shirt. He waited at the front door, peeking out of the screen.

Allegra stepped into her Mercedes wearing a pastel coral cocktail dress with an upswept hairdo, looking like Diahann Carroll with a smidgen of Grace Kelly. She drove off to wherever she needed to go and he imagined how breathtaking she'd look, stepping into a crowded room with all eyes on her beauty.

Ka-kump. Ka-kump. Ka-kump.

Pilar glided onto the sidewalk near their house and headed for the garage.

"I'm right here," he said.

She looked at him through the screen. He opened it and stepped outside. Folding his arms over his wide chest, he gave his daughter a questioning look.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked.

Her friends Caleb, Trudy, and Aisha waved at her and kick-pushed their skateboards toward their houses while yelling hello to him.

"You baked those cookies for Miss Allegra. Not a school party."

Pilar gave him a sheepish grin.

"What did you write in the note?"

"I just said something like…welcome to the neighborhood. Enjoy these homemade cookies. Then I put your name on it."

"Just my name?"

"Yes."

"She brought the plate back and made us some banana bread."

"Ooh!" Pilar said, rubbing her hands together. "My plan is set in motion."

"What plan?"

"Dad…c'mon. Miss Allegra is the best-looking woman around here. I think you should ask her out on a date."

"I don't need my ten-year-old setting us up."

Pilar put a hand on her hip.

"Well, Auntie Brianna and Auntie Sloane said she's gorgeous and they think you should get to know her. She might be your perfect fit."

"How would they know? They've never seen her."

"I snuck a picture of her on my phone and sent it to them."

"Why the sudden interest in getting me to date?"

Pilar's gaze dropped to the ground.

"No reason. She's new and you don't go out as much anymore."

"That's because I have to take care of you. You're my priority. Dating can always come later."

He stepped aside and let her come in with her skateboard.

"It was a nice thing you did…giving her the cookies," he said.

Pilar grinned.

Terry was an adept father and took pride in keeping a meticulous home, and his child put together well when she exited the front door. Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Pilar started coming home from school with wildly disheveled hair. Even if he put protective styles in with twists or high buns with little curls framing her face with cute tendrils, his daughter returned looking like her head went through a blender.

She'd claim it was the weather. Bad rainfall, or the wind messing it up, but for ten school days, she rolled back home with her hair every which-way, rubber bands busted, barrettes missing, and knocker ball hair bobbles vanished into thin air. She'd roll through, and each time, their neighbor Allegra would be outside collecting her mail. Pilar would wave and say "Hi!" really loud and Allegra responded in kind before stepping back into her house.

He assumed she wanted her hair out, craving to wear hairstyles like her older girl cousins. Rather than make a big deal about it, he started putting a headband on her.

One Saturday afternoon, Pilar played outside on the curved part of the cul-de-sac with her friends, kicking a soccer ball into Caleb's two netted goal posts. A typical loud day of children freely running around screaming and playing in the street. Pilar rocked a bushy 'fro and had the loudest voice out of the bunch.

He kept an eye out for them while watching a football game by leaving his livingroom shades open. Snacking on some chips, he turned his head to check on the action outside.

He quickly ducked his head down low.

Allegra played outside with the children.

Terry hid behind the couch and secretly watched Allegra interact with the neighborhood kids doing soccer ball tricks with her knees and sneaker'd feet. She kicked the ball to Pilar and his daughter charged her, heading for a goal post. Allegra wasn't shy about her defensive moves and easily swiped the ball away from his daughter, kicking it with a curved arc into the opposite goal post. All the children squealed in delight and high-fived her. She stepped aside to let the children continue their boisterous match up.

Terry's back ached from being hunched over spying. Pilar spoke to Allegra for a long time, ignoring her friends, and her bouncy energy kept a smile on the woman's face. Allegra glanced toward his open window and Terry dropped to the floor, hiding his body.

He waited five minutes.

"Why are you on the floor, Daddy?"

Pilar stood above him with a quizzical expression. She'd come in the house through the garage door.

"Stretching my back out," he said.

"But you're on your stomach."

"Can I help you with something?" he said, standing up.

Outside, Allegra stood watching him through the window.

"I asked Miss Allegra how she kept her hair so pretty and she told me her hair care routine. I'm coming to get a pen and paper for her to write it down so you can take care of my hair."

"What? I know how to take care of your hair! I've been doing it since you were born."

Pilar grabbed a Bic pen and tore a piece off some junk mail envelope sitting on the coffee table.

"Daddy, please. Work with me here. I've been looking raggedy for two weeks to get her attention. She finally asked about my curls and I asked about her hair."

Pilar dashed out the front door before he could stop her. She handed Allegra the pen and paper. Terry became flustered. His daughter pretended to be unkempt to fool a grown woman into having sympathy for him.

Allegra scribbled on the paper outside and he felt exposed for something that wasn't true. Pilar ran back into the house through the front door and handed him the half envelope. Most of what Allegra listed, Terry already had in his bathroom for his daughter.

However…she wrote her phone number down, too.

"Boo-ya!" Pilar said, flinging her fingers open like an explosion going off.

"Come into the kitchen with me," he said.

Pilar followed him.

"Sit," he commanded.

He stuffed the half envelope in his back pocket.

"Pilar…babygirl…I know you mean well, but please…stop the antics."

"But Daddy—"

"I mean it."

His voice went down an octave, his baritone sounding harsh. Pilar ran from the kitchen table and stomped loudly up the stairs. He closed his eyes in frustration and waited fifteen minutes before going upstairs.

Pilar cried on her bed. Her loud bawling startled him.

"Munchkin…I'm not mad…I just…you don't have to do this."

"I do!" she wailed.

He sat in his usual spot and let her get her emotions out. She eventually calmed down to gaspy shudders and sad moans of pain. He brushed her hair back, and she threw her arms around his neck.

"I don't want you being alone. Mom married somebody and now she gets to be happy. I want you to be happy, too, Daddy."

"Munchkin, I am happy. I have you…grampy and grandma, your aunts, my friends—"

She shook her head against his neck.

"It's not the same as having someone for yourself. I'll grow up and go to college and you'll be here by yourself. Everyone in our family has someone. Grampy has Grandma, Auntie Brianna has Uncle Mitch…Auntie Sloane has Uncle Kenny. Even Auntie Monique has her boyfriend Gordon. I'm scared for you, Daddy. You're such a good, kind person and you deserve what Mommy has."

Pilar burst into more tears and his eyes grew blurry. He wiped them and pulled back from his daughter.

"It's not your responsibility to worry about me. My job is to worry about you, hear me?"

Pilar kept crying. Her nose ran, but she nodded at his words.

"When the time comes for me to find my special someone…it'll happen. Naturally. Understand?"

"Y-Y-Yessss," she blubbered.

He kissed her forehead and used his thumbs to wipe away warm tears.

"Can I tell you something that will make you happy?"

"O-O-Okayyyy," she choked out.

"Your Mom and 'that man' agreed to change their plans back to coming out for Christmas. And, I don't have to trade Thanksgiving."

"For real?"

"For real. In fact, Bryson urged your mother to reconsider, and he rescheduled the cruise for next year. He's not so bad, huh?"

Pilar sniffled, and her swollen red eyes pained him.

"I guess not."

"Let's make a deal, okay? You don't worry about hooking me up and just enjoy being a little girl with a happy father."

"Are you happy?"

"I am. I have you and a very full life. Promise. Go wash your face and get back outside with your friends."

"Okay, Daddy."

She jumped off the bed and ran to the hall bathroom. He went to her bedroom window and peeked out from the blinds. Allegra went back into her home. He pulled the scrap of envelope from his back pocket and stared at her phone number.

Saturday afternoons were usually Terry and Pilar's time to decompress and watch movies together. Sometimes there was a slumber party with her cousins at their house or one of his sister's. But on this particular Saturday, it was football fever on the flatscreen TV with his buddies while Pilar was at her grandparents' house.

Terry had plenty of pizzas and beer, and his sound system blasted the play-by-play of the game. He enjoyed the company of his buddies, all Black men with families, and very little free time except for the small moments of respite at Terry's place. The Steelers beat the Commanders and the guys talked shit, then they played his AuxGod Hip Hop Edition game. He rapped his ass off while playing Nas's "One Mic" on his smartphone and got his friends hyped to share R&B music. They all howled when someone messed up playing the wrong songs based on cards they pulled, thinking they had the perfect jam. Good clean fun.

The afternoon wound down into late evening and he cleaned up pizza boxes and empty beer cans. His friends bumped fists and gave each other dap as they left out the front door. Rain started falling, and he noticed Allegra pulling into her driveway. The late hour had him guessing she had a night out again. Her job didn't keep her from a busy social life. He often caught sight of her coming and going on the weekends. One time, another car brought her home and stayed overnight in her driveway.

He waved his friends away and pulled out his cell to call his father.

"Hey Junior," his father said.

"Hey, Pops. How's it going over there?"

"Good. The girls are playing and your mama is letting them stay up late to watch some Godzilla movie on Amazon Prime."

"I wanted to say goodnight to Pilar."

"No problem, hold on…Pilar! Your Dad is on the phone!"

Terry waited for his daughter, and soon enough, her voice rang in his ear.

"Hey, Dad."

"Being good?"

"Of course. What time are you picking me up tomorrow?"

"After you get back from church."

"Aw man. You can't get me early, so I don't have to go?"

"I had to suffer through it. It's your turn now."

"But they take forever. Even God goes to sleep by the time that preacher gets done."

"Hey, don't blaspheme, and don't you two keep Grampy and Grandma up too late, okay?"

"We won't. Night, Dad!"

Terry swiped his smartphone and noticed Allegra's car lights were still on. She hadn't left her driveway. He guessed she was talking on her cell phone.

His house smelled of cigars, pepperoni, and Budweiser. He finished cleaning up and sprayed the dining room with air freshener. Rolling his neck muscles, he climbed up to his bedroom. His blinds were open, and he checked the street again.

Allegra stood near her car in the rain looking up at the sky. She stuck her tongue out, tasting the droplets, and spun around in a circle with her arms outstretched. He smiled. She looked like a big kid having fun.

The rain drenched her hair, and she swiped it back, her tresses turning into slick ringlets. The playfulness she exuded cracked something open inside of him. Maybe Pilar was right. Maybe he did want someone to share his life with. He and Allegra barely exchanged enough words in passing for him to sense that she would be open to going out for a coffee or dinner. She never got back to him about the bookshelves, and he never called her phone number to ask about the hair care products she suggested for Pilar.

His confidence in asking women out had waned that year. Each time he thought he might want to spend time with a woman, schedules didn't match up, or he didn't feel that pull to pursue a relationship. The spark wasn't there. Part of him was afraid to put his heart back out there. His ex, Yolanda, had been a heartbreak he finally let go of two years ago. It frightened him into not wanting to be vulnerable with another woman again. Romantic love was for the brave, and Terry was not feeling brave anymore.

But Allegra?

After shaking her arms, she finally went inside her house, not caring that her snazzy outfit was soaked clear through to her skin. He looked at his dresser. The envelope with her number sat next to his hairbrush.

He texted her number.

Hi, Allegra. This is your neighbor, Terry. I was going to pick up some lumber at Home Depot tomorrow and wanted to know if you were still interested in getting bookshelves made? No rush to answer. I'm always going there every other week. If you changed your mind, that's cool, too.

He sent it off, and seconds later, she rang him up.

"Hello?"

He sounded breathless.

"Hi…Terry? It's Allegra…from across the street. Got your message."

"Oh, great. Sorry for texting so late. I was about to turn in and wanted to ask you before I forgot and left tomorrow."

He winced. His words came out in a rush of nervous energy.

"I do want the bookshelves made. I've been so busy I just never got around to measuring anything. Could you come by tomorrow before you leave and take a look at my floor space? You'd have a better idea of measurements than I would."

Terry stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes turned into saucers.

"I can do that. I've got to pick up my daughter from church tomorrow at one. I can drop by with my digital tape measure before then and then go to Home Depot."

"Can I go with you? I'd like to see the wood you're considering besides the maple you told me about."

"Uh…sure."

"What time should I expect you over here?"

"Let's say ten?"

"Great, see ya then."

"Goodnight."

He hung up, stunned.

She wanted to go with him to the Depot?

"So, what do you think? Two shelves here and then two more in my office room?"

Allegra watched him make final calculations on his phone. He surveyed her living room set-up one more time to ensure efficient use of her space. They'd spent a good twenty minutes upstairs in her stylish office and he made a quick sketch on his notepad of the shelving unit he could make for her in there. She would pay for the wood and any extra supplies he needed, and he insisted on doing the work for free.

The layout in her house was roomy and leaned toward a mid-century modern styled interior. She liked rich and luxurious wood furniture with mustard yellow and avocado-colored accents. Her home fit her personal style the way he imagined it would. It had a timeless quality. He told her a little about the family that lived there before she bought the place, and the conversation meandered into her own hobbies of painting and gardening. She showed him her patio space in the back and he offered to build her plant containers to grow her favorite flowers. Those were easy to put together and would be cheaper than her buying them pre-made online.

He learned that she had been a highschool soccer star, and that talent landed her a full-ride scholarship to Brown University where she almost landed a spot on the Olympic team. But a skiing accident ruined her shot. She still liked to watch the game and play occasionally.

Allegra worked from home mostly as an In-House attorney for a legal firm with document heavy cases, thus the need for bookshelves to hold all her law books. She did contract reviews, legal research, and dealt with a lot of intellectual property research for her clients.

Terry listened to her talk about herself, and her warm personality gave him the courage to open up about himself. Of course, he bragged about Pilar, and on their way to Home Depot, he pointed out places of interest to her.

"I always wanted to live in a small town," she said. "I grew up in New England, but my grandparents were from here, so I had annual trips for holidays and always liked it. Now that I can work remotely from home, I put stakes in the ground and live here full time. Getting away from the east coast has been a relief. This place makes me happy."

"We love it here. Excellent schools, nice people who look out for each other."

"It's just you and Pilar?"

"Yep. My ex remarried and moved to Europe."

"Co-parenting overseas must be rough."

"Yolanda…my ex…she recently moved there. It's going to be a change for sure. I'm used to Pilar flying a quick hop to Atlanta. Now, she'll have partial summers there and I don't know if I can handle her flying so far away where I can't get to her fast, y'know?"

"I had to do it when I was young. My parents divorced when I was twelve. I hopped from Boston to England to stay with my dad and his new wife on my school breaks. My mother was a nervous wreck at first, but you adjust."

"I hope so. I try to be stoic for Pilar, but I know I'll be in shambles when she flies out there next year."

Allegra laughed and the sound of her voice so close comforted him.

"I'll help talk you down when those nerves kick up," she said.

They walked up and down aisles at the Home Depot, and since he was a regular, the workers there were quick to help him because he didn't waste time. Terry explained the different type of wood options and they compared prices. He did his best to keep costs down for her, and she went along with whatever he thought was best. She'd seen his work output and trusted his skills.

He loaded up the truck bed, and they swooped over to his grandparents' church to pick up Pilar. His daughter's eyes widened when she noticed Allegra sitting in the truck. She ran past Terry and chatted with Allegra. He soon introduced his parents to her, and they invited her to attend a church service in the future.

Pilar hopped in the seat behind Allegra, and he drove them back to their home.

"I'll unload this and start working on your shelving units tomorrow," he said.

"Great."

Pilar watched them interact. She wore the goofiest grin on her face.

Allegra took off across the street and he watched her leave along with Pilar. When she was outside of earshot, Pilar grabbed his arm.

"You hung out with her?" she enthused.

"We talked about her bookshelves."

"So you went inside her house and spent time with her, right?"

"I did."

"Isn't she cool? She plays soccer, and she likes monster movies…"

Pilar stopped gushing about Allegra.

"I forgot. You told me not to interfere."

"I might've been wrong about that," he said.

Pilar's face lit up.

"Oh, yeah?"

"I like her. She's really nice and smart."

"My work here is done," Pilar said.

She skipped into the house, and he unloaded the truck.

Making bookshelves and planter boxes was the beginning.

Next came inviting Allegra over for football game gatherings with his family.

He introduced her to his oldest sister who gave birth to a baby boy, her first, and he watched Allegra nervously hold the newborn with trepidation in her eyes.

"You got it…just hold his head like this and keep him close to you…yeah, see, you got it," he said.

Terry's new nephew was a little chocolate drop.

"He's so tiny and adorable," Allegra said.

All of his sisters liked her, and his mother took the grand gesture of inviting her to join them on their family Christmas trip. Allegra looked genuinely receptive to the idea, but she already had plans to fly out to Boston to spend the winter holiday with her family. Terry felt bummed about it and realized that he was catching feelings for her.

He kept their budding friendship platonic, but by the following spring, it was clear to everyone around them that something was blooming past friendship. They hadn't been physical with each other yet, not even kissing. He liked the slow, easy pace. It gave him time to know her before jumping into anything serious, especially since he had Pilar to think of.

His daughter was crazy about Allegra.

He was too.

As time ticked on and it grew closer to the time that Pilar would have to fly overseas, his anxiety spiked. He was not planning on attending the celebration. His former sister-in-law, Zarah, was going to fly the long distance with Pilar to Rome.

The day his daughter was to leave, he paced in his living room, going over Pilar's packing list several times. Allegra hung out with him, reassuring him that all would be well. Zarah was on her way in a Lyft to pick up Pilar. They all thought it best that he say his goodbyes from home and not go to the airport.

"Go to the restroom one more time before you leave," he told his daughter.

Pilar ran upstairs to her bathroom.

"I'm going to put the roast in the oven for our dinner tonight," Allegra said. "Be right back."

He walked her outside of his home. When Allegra reached the sidewalk, she turned around to face him. For the first time, she slid her arms around his waist and looked up at him.

"You're a great Dad, Terry. Pilar is so lucky to have you…and so am I."

Terry locked eyes with her, and any fears he had about taking a chance on finding love melted away.

"May I kiss you?" he asked.

Her eyes twinkled like she'd been waiting her whole life to hear him say those four words.

"Yes, you may, Mr. Richmond."

He placed his forehead against hers first and savored the moment before the moment. Yes, he deserved someone for himself. His wily daughter had been so correct in her assessment of him. Forever grateful for Pilar's push to get him out into the world with the special woman in his arms, Terry lowered his head and kissed Allegra.

His full, lush lips were nothing compared to the soft place of comfort he found pressed against her mouth. Her lips coaxed a passion out of him he hadn't felt in years. He kept the kiss a little below chaste…she gave him a little teasing of her tongue to entice him for more later, when they would be alone. His grin broke their physical contact and the butterflies in his stomach told him she was the one to take a chance with.

He pushed a fluffy bang away from her left eye and Allegra glanced up toward his second floor. Terry followed her gaze, and they both glimpsed Pilar looking down at them from her bedroom window. She fist-pumped her right hand, and the expression she gave them was pure joy.

Her little plan worked.

Author's Note:

I wanted to write something fast and fluffy to put out the day after the horror of that anti-Black orange menace being put back in office by racist white people and their non-Black PoC racist minions. Black women need soft, joyful things to get us through. We all we got. Remember that.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for sashene behind the cut; "soulmate Timberkon". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

He thinks about asking Dick Grayson if he knows any dead “13”s, but he’d really rather not have that conversation with anyone but Tim, who is definitely not on a business trip right now and also has apparently changed his cell phone number and email and hasn’t been online on any account Bernard knows of since he dropped out and dropped off the face of the earth. 

Anyway, the guy already lied to him once; what, does he expect him to switch up just because he asks him something weird enough? 

Yeah, not likely, Bernard thinks. 

He leaves Dick Grayson his phone number like Tim doesn’t already have it and asks him to tell him to call him when he’s back in town, and then he leaves Wayne Manor like he actually thinks there is literally any chance whatsoever of Tim actually doing that.

“Robin” is one thing, especially in handwriting that Bernard only actually recognizes as Tim’s because he’s always thought Tim’s handwriting was friggin’ weird for not having any noticable little quirks to it like basically every other human being alive’s. Even “13” has more personality in the way it’s written, even looking like somebody who’s barely ever held a pencil in their life wrote it. Even–

Bernard . . . pauses. 

Why does he have “13”? If whoever his other soulmate was didn’t live long enough to learn how to write, then their name shouldn’t have shown up at all. That’s, like–that’s a thing, isn’t it? That’s supposed to be how it works? That’s what he’s always heard, anyway; people who never develop names, their soulmates were going to die before they got old enough to learn how to write. Which is some weird and unsettling fucked-up shit about determinism and destiny and the nature of time or what the hell ever, Bernard guesses, though also he guesses it’s just possible that if someone’s soulmate dies that early then the world just–rewrites itself a bit, kinda, and takes their impossible mark away, and people just forget that name ever existed on anyone’s soulmark, which actually wait, that might be worse, Jesus Christ that is not a thought he needed to have had, that’s–

Not the point. Just–either way, he does have a “13”. And it was red, it looks like. A pretty bright red, given what it faded to. Which is weird enough, frankly, because most people actually do not get soulmarks with color in them, but that’s a whole other thing. Like–whatever, Bernard writes his “B”s and "R"s both a little weird so they’re more distinctive; most people do something like that. Maybe 13 only wrote in red. Which again, makes Tim’s totally non-distinctive handwriting a whole weird thing that in retrospect that Bernard maybe should’ve thought to be concerned about sooner, but–yeah. 

He has a “13” on his chest either way, and someone wrote it at some point and thought of it as their name. Thought of it as their name strongly enough that that’s the name his soulmark manifested as. Like, Bernard’s heard of soulmark names changing every now and then, same as they can fade out, but it is ridiculously rare and–

Not the point, again. Very much not the point. The point is: what the hell? 

Bernard is maybe a little bit too stressed about this, but in his defense, he’s got a dead soulmate he didn’t even know he had and his alive soulmate has disappeared out of his life without leaving a forwarding address or even an email address or even an explanation–

Or even, like–a goodbye. 

Yeah, never mind. Bernard, actually, thinks that he is the exact right level of stressed about this. In fact, he could probably be a little bit more stressed than he is already. So like, maybe he’ll work on that, considering. 

No matter how appropriate his stress levels feel, though, really the problem is he just wants to talk to Tim about this. 

Or like–he guesses actually the problem is that Tim doesn’t want to talk to him. 

.

.

.

Things just–hurt, lately. Bernard keeps thinking about that, over and over. 

At this point, it’s pretty much all he can think about.

[sturnsblogs]

PARTIES AND AGREEMENTS

Stern!Chris X Free!Spirited!Reader

Word count- 3546

Warnings- Umm..i guess like very very very slight angst if you squint. long read and also there will be a lot of random emotions in this!!

The studio is a beautiful mess. Fabric scraps litter the floor like confetti, Holly is sitting cross-legged on the cutting table stringing beads onto a necklace she swears is “very couture,” and Theo is darting between mannequins with a swatch of tulle tied around his neck like a cape.

You’ve got a pencil behind one ear, a measuring tape around your neck, and a cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand. The other is busy sketching out the final design for Holly’s birthday dress—a soft lilac organza number she insisted must have “twirl power.”

The door swings open without warning.

“Knock knock, chaos crew,” Nick calls as he strolls in, dodging a flying pin cushion Theo just launched like a grenade.

“Nick!” Theo cheers, immediately abandoning his superhero game to wrap around Nick’s legs. “Did you bring snacks?”

“Nope, just charm,” Nick grins, ruffling Theo’s hair and handing you a much-needed fresh iced coffee. “And a brilliant idea.”

“Oh no,” you say flatly.

Nick hops up onto the corner of your desk, careful not to crush a pattern draft. “What if… instead of a date—”

“Already no,” you interrupt, sipping your drink.

“—you invited someone to Holly’s birthday party?”

You glance up. “What?”

Nick gestures vaguely, like the idea is floating in the air waiting to be grabbed. “You know… a casual thing. No pressure. No ‘date’ label. Just… a nice little invite to a fun event.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Who, exactly, are you trying to set me up with this time?”

He tries to look innocent. Fails. “Chris.”

You groan.

“Hear me out,” he says quickly. “It’s not a date. It’s a kid’s party. There’ll be cake. Balloons. Glitter. You love glitter.”

“I also love not being glared at across the room by a guy who probably schedules when he breathes,” you mutter.

Nick leans forward, voice earnest. “Chris needs this. And Maverick too. The kid acts like he’s got a mortgage. I’m worried he’s gonna start filing taxes for fun.”

You crack a smile, despite yourself. “He’s nine.”

“Exactly. Nine-year-olds should be jumping into bouncy castles, not organizing their sock drawers by color.”

You hesitate. You do feel a little bad for the kid. And Holly’s party is going to be ridiculous—in the best way. Pony rides, DIY slime stations, a magic show… Maybe Maverick could use a little chaos.

You glance over at Holly, who’s now putting beads in Theo’s hair like he’s her personal styling mannequin.

“Just an invite,” you say slowly.

Nick beams. “Just an invite.”

“No dress code. No military time. And if he tries to enforce a bedtime, I’m releasing the glitter cannons.”

Nick raises a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

You sigh, already regretting this. “Fine. Tell him he’s invited.”

Nick hops off the desk, triumphant. “This is gonna be so good.”

You shake your head, but there’s a part of you that’s just a little curious.

What’s the worst that could happen?

AT CHRIS’S HOUSE

Chris’s house is quiet. Too quiet, if you ask Nick.

The living room is spotless—like magazine-photo-shoot spotless. Not a Lego in sight, no glitter glue stuck to the wall, and Maverick is at the dining table with a dictionary open, writing in cursive. Cursive. At nine.

Nick’s starting to think the kid might be a robot.

“Are you seriously making him do handwriting practice on a Saturday?” Nick asks, dropping onto the couch and cracking open a soda.

Chris doesn’t look up from where he’s organizing receipts. “He asked to work on his penmanship.”

“That’s… alarming.”

Chris finally glances over. “What do you want, Nick?”

Nick grins. “Glad you asked. There’s a birthday party this weekend. You and Maverick are invited.”

“No.” Chris doesn’t miss a beat.

“You don’t even know who it’s for!”

Chris gives him a look. “It’s for her, isn’t it?”

Nick pauses. “…Define ‘her.’”

Chris closes his folder slowly. “Y/N. The one who lets her kids eat ice cream for dinner and paints walls with finger paint. The one who left her car unlocked for three days and didn’t notice.”

“Okay,” Nick concedes, “but to be fair, it’s not like anyone wanted to steal her glitter-covered minivan.”

Chris just raises an eyebrow.

“She’s not that bad,” Nick continues, undeterred. “She’s fun. She’s cool. And Maverick could really use a little cool.”

“I don’t want Maverick around… chaos,” Chris says plainly. “Her kids have no structure. They run wild. I heard the little one—Theo—once tried to glue a penny to another kid’s forehead at recess.”

Nick snorts. “Honestly, that’s kind of genius.”

Chris glares. “I don’t need Maverick picking up bad habits.”

Nick sits up, more serious now. “He won’t. But he might have fun. You remember fun, right? You used to know what that was.”

Chris crosses his arms. “And what, exactly, is this party?”

“Holly’s turning ten. It’s a backyard thing. Pony rides, magic show, probably an unlicensed slime booth.”

Chris groans.

“It’s one afternoon, Chris. You don’t even have to talk to her. Just show up, let Maverick play with kids who don’t use words like ‘mature investment.’”

From the dining table, Maverick pipes up without looking up from his workbook, “It’s not mature, it’s moderate-risk.”

Nick turns, blinking. “You’re terrifying.”

Chris sighs. “I don’t know.”

Nick leans forward. “Look, man. Just… show up. If it’s awful, I’ll personally pull the fire alarm and get you out. But give your kid a chance to be a kid.”

Chris glances at Maverick—still carefully writing, perfectly upright posture.

Maybe Nick has a point.

Maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” Chris mutters.

Nick grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Chris already regrets this.

Saturday hits like a glitter bomb.

You’re in the backyard, hair half-curled and one shoe missing, while Holly directs a face painter like she’s producing a Broadway show. Theo is wearing a magician’s hat and chasing the balloon artist with a water gun.

The bounce house is inflated, the cupcakes are slightly lopsided, and someone forgot to tie the ponies to the fence (you make a mental note to check on that immediately).

You’re halfway through stringing up a “Happy 10th Birthday” banner when you hear the gate creak open—and a thump, followed by a groan.

You peek around the tree and freeze.

Nick is walking up the grass with Maverick clinging to him like a shy baby koala. The poor kid has his arms wrapped around Nick’s neck, his chin tucked into his shoulder. He’s in perfectly pressed khakis and a collared shirt, his hair combed like he’s headed to a job interview, not a birthday party.

Behind them trails Chris.

And he is not thrilled.

“Maverick,” Chris says sharply, pointing toward the ground. “You’re nine. Get down and walk.”

Nick waves a hand, totally unfazed. “Relax, man. He’s fine. It’s a party, not boot camp.”

Chris frowns. “He doesn’t need to be babied.”

“He needs to breathe,” Nick shoots back. “Let him warm up.”

You try not to laugh, but it slips out—just a little snort that draws Chris’s attention.

You straighten up quickly, adjusting your shirt and brushing confetti off your hands. “Hey! You must be Maverick.”

Maverick peeks over Nick’s shoulder and nods timidly.

“And you must be the famous Chris.”

Chris eyes you cautiously. “And you’re Y/N.”

“Guilty.” You flash him a bright smile. “Welcome to our circus.”

Chris glances around. Theo is currently trying to put glitter on a pony’s hooves, a speaker is blaring bubblegum pop, and Holly is getting her second coat of face paint like she’s transforming into a dragon.

His jaw tightens. “I noticed.”

Nick sets Maverick down gently. “Go on, buddy. Holly and Theo are somewhere near the cotton candy machine-slash-fire hazard.”

Maverick hesitates, then slowly walks toward the chaos. His back is stiff like he’s bracing for impact.

Chris folds his arms. “He’s not used to this kind of environment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Fun?”

“Disorder,” he corrects.

You grin. “We prefer ‘creative energy.’”

Chris doesn’t smile, but you catch the way his eyes flick toward where Maverick is being led into a dance circle by Theo and Holly, and how his shoulders drop just a little.

You nudge him gently. “Relax, soldier. No one’s getting hurt.”

“Yet.”

You laugh again and tilt your head. “Give it ten minutes. You might even enjoy yourself.”

Chris mutters something under his breath about doubt and liability, but you’re already walking off to stop Theo from trying to juggle cupcakes.

And maybe—you feel his eyes on you as you go.

Chris stands with the stiff posture of someone who’s either in a job interview or waiting to be called in for a root canal.

He’s by the fence, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching as Maverick cautiously follows Theo and Holly toward a table covered in rainbow slime and stickers. At first, Maverick hovers like he’s unsure whether he needs to report for duty—but then Theo shoves a glitter-filled squirt bottle into his hand and says, “This one’s for defense,” and Holly crowns him with a plastic tiara like it’s nothing at all.

Chris blinks as Maverick actually… giggles.

It’s quiet, but it’s there. A real laugh.

Chris tilts his head, brow furrowing like his brain is short-circuiting.

You spot him standing there like a statue and make your move.

“Hey, Soldier Boy,” you say, slipping beside him and nudging him gently with your elbow. “You always look this uncomfortable at children’s parties or is this a special case?”

Chris sighs. “He’s just… not usually like this.”

“Happy?”

“Unsupervised.”

You laugh, and before he can retreat again, you point toward the table near the back porch.

“Come on. I need a steady hand. You ever decorated cupcakes before?”

Chris blinks. “Is that a serious question?”

You’re already walking away. “That’s a ‘no.’ Let’s change that.”

He hesitates but follows—half because he feels weird standing alone, and half because he’s not used to not being in control of a situation.

The cupcake station is a colorful battlefield. Icing tubes, edible glitter, mismatched sprinkles, and a frosting knife that’s definitely been used to ice more fingers than actual cupcakes.

You hand him a piping bag. “Okay. Rule one: there are no rules.”

He gives you a look.

You grin. “Fine. Basic structure: twist the bag here, don’t squeeze too hard, and let the cupcake tell you where it wants the frosting to go.”

Chris blinks. “You want me to listen to baked goods?”

“Yes,” you say without missing a beat. “It’s a whole vibe. Watch.”

You grab a cupcake, swirl a perfect spiral of lavender icing on top, then toss on some edible flowers and a touch of glitter like a magician finishing a spell.

He watches your hands, clearly impressed despite himself.

“Now you.”

He tries. He really does.

But the bag explodes slightly at the top, the swirl ends up looking more like a collapsing snowman, and the glitter goes in his hair.

You burst out laughing.

Chris scowls down at the sad cupcake. “That feels like a personal failure.”

You lean in close, brushing a bit of frosting from his wrist. “I think it’s kind of cute.”

He glances sideways at you, and for just a second, he looks…soft. “It’s chaos.”

You smile. “Yeah. Isn’t it great?”

You slide the finished cupcake onto a tray beside the others. He stares at his mess of a creation like it’s an unsolvable puzzle—but then, when he looks up, he sees Maverick running around the yard with Theo and Holly, cupcake crumbs on his shirt and laughter pouring out of him.

And Chris doesn’t say anything.

But he picks up another piping bag.

Just… to try again.

The sun has dipped just enough to cast golden light across the backyard. The chaos has mellowed into something that almost looks like peace. Parents are chatting in clusters, half-eaten cupcakes are abandoned on paper plates, and the magic show was somehow not a total disaster—unless you count the dove that flew into the neighbor’s yard. (You don’t.)

You’re sitting on the porch steps, sipping lemonade and flicking glitter off your jeans, when Chris settles beside you. He looks marginally less stiff than he did two hours ago. His sleeves are rolled up, frosting still clinging to one cuff, and his hair has a stubborn sprinkle of edible stars that no one’s mentioned yet.

“You survived,” you say, nudging his knee with yours.

“Barely,” he mutters, watching the kids dive in and out of the bounce house like they’ve discovered a new form of cardio.

You glance over, studying the lines of his face now that he’s relaxed just a little. He’s got that ex-military stillness, like his brain is always scanning the perimeter, but something in his eyes is softer now—like the edges are starting to blur.

“You always this tense, or is this just your party mode?”

Chris huffs a laugh. “I don’t really do parties. Or… glitter. Or unsupervised sugar.”

You grin. “So basically, everything this party stands for.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a quiet beat before he adds, “But I have to admit… the slime cannon was kind of impressive.”

You gasp in fake shock. “Did you just compliment chaos?”

He deadpans, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You chuckle and reach into the little pot of loose glitter near you—the one Theo used to bedazzle a rock earlier. Without warning, you flick a small pinch of it in Chris’s direction.

It lands across his face and shoulder like fairy dust.

He blinks, stunned. “Did you just glitter bomb me?”

“Absolutely.”

He stares at you for a long second—then lets out a short, surprised laugh. It’s rough and reluctant, but real.

You light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Yes. I win.”

“I’m still reporting you to the authorities,” he grumbles, brushing at his cheek. But there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now, even if he’s trying to hide it.

Before you can tease him more, Maverick comes sprinting across the grass, barefoot, grinning like he just invented joy.

“Dad! Dad, can we swim? Please? Please please please?” He points toward the side of the house, where your pool glimmers invitingly. Theo and Holly are already halfway to the gate, tugging off their shoes.

Chris stiffens. “Maverick, no. We didn’t plan for that. You don’t even have swim shorts—”

“Pleeeease?” Maverick whines, practically bouncing. “I don’t care! I’ll go in my regular clothes, I swear!”

“You will not go in your—”

“He can borrow a pair of Theo’s,” you cut in smoothly, standing. “I’ve got towels too. It’s fine.”

Chris turns to you, clearly not used to having his authority steamrolled so casually. “I don’t want him ruining your stuff.”

“Please. Half the towels in my house have glitter embedded in them. You’d be doing them a favor.”

Maverick looks up at Chris with big, hopeful eyes. “Dad. Please. Just this once?”

Chris sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But thirty minutes. And no cannonballs.”

Maverick takes off cheering before he even hears the conditions.

Chris watches him disappear, shoulders tense—but not angry. Just… conflicted.

You smile at him again, soft this time. “You know, for a control freak, you’re doing pretty good.”

He sighs. “That feels like an insult.”

“It’s a compliment,” you promise. “A sparkly one.”

He shakes his head, but that tiny smile returns.

And just like that, you know you’ve found your favorite challenge.

The pool is alive with shrieking laughter, cannonballs, and pool noodle sword fights. Maverick is smiling more than you’ve ever seen—he’s even got wet curls stuck to his forehead and a little pink on his cheeks from the sun. He’s not quoting science facts or correcting anyone’s grammar. He’s playing.

You’re sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, towel draped over your legs, watching Theo and Holly whisper conspiratorially with Maverick near the shallow end. That can’t be good.

Theo points subtly toward Chris, who’s standing at a safe, dry distance by the pool fence with his arms crossed and a permanent expression of “this is exactly what I feared would happen.”

Maverick gives a hesitant nod.

Then Holly swims up behind you and stage-whispers, “Can you call Chris over here real quick?”

You raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Why?”

“Important adult reason.”

Theo grins behind her. “Super important.”

You sigh dramatically. “I’m probably going to regret this.”

You stand and wave Chris over. “Hey! Chris! Can I steal you for a sec?”

He walks over reluctantly, already on high alert. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently, stepping aside as he nears the pool edge. “They just wanted—”

WHOOOSH.

Two tiny bodies explode out of the water like torpedoes.

Holly and Theo, grinning like maniacs, each land a perfect splash. Water slaps against Chris’s chest, face, and perfectly dry shirt in a massive wave.

He’s soaked. Fully.

You gasp. Maverick bursts into laughter. Theo cheers. Holly throws up her hands like it’s a gold medal Olympic moment.

Chris freezes.

Water drips down his face. His collar is plastered to his neck. His perfectly ironed pants are clinging to his legs like betrayal.

He clenches his jaw, every muscle in his body trying not to react—but you can see the fire in his eyes.

“Theo. Holly.” Your voice cuts sharp through the noise. “Out of the pool. Now.”

They scramble to the side, still half-laughing, but Theo’s smile fades fast when he sees the look on your face.

“We were just trying to loosen him up!” Holly says quickly, standing with dripping hair and guilty hands. “He looked so stiff!”

“Yeah!” Theo jumps in, “We wanted him to have fun!”

“That’s not how you do it,” you snap, grabbing a towel. “You don’t get someone to have fun by ambushing them.”

Meanwhile, Chris turns sharply toward Maverick, who’s now gone quiet in the shallow end, looking like he might sink under the water from secondhand guilt.

“Maverick,” Chris says, voice low and tight. “Did you know about this?”

Maverick blinks at him, frozen.

“Did you plan this?”

“I—I didn’t—I didn’t do the splashing,” Maverick stammers.

“But you knew, didn’t you?”

You whip your head around. “Chris—”

“You stood there and let it happen,” he snaps, tone rising. “What part of that sounded like a good idea to you?”

Maverick’s lip trembles. “I just wanted you to… to laugh.”

Chris opens his mouth to respond—but stops.

His hands are fists. His shoulders are high. He’s soaked to the bone, humiliated, and every instinct is telling him to shut it all down.

But then he sees his son’s face.

And something falters.

The party noise fades to a strange silence—the kind that falls when fun crosses the line.

You quickly wrap a towel around Holly, giving her a firm look that says we’re talking later, and turn to Chris, whose wet shirt is still clinging to his chest as he crouches beside Maverick.

He’s quiet now. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, stepping toward him. “I didn’t know what they were planning. I should’ve—”

Chris doesn’t look at you. He’s focused on Maverick, drying him off gently with a towel, smoothing his wet hair back. Maverick doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be tended to like he’s nine months old again instead of nine years.

Chris’s jaw is still tight when he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear, “I knew this was a mistake.”

Your stomach drops.

You fold your arms over your chest and try to keep your voice steady. “Chris…”

He still won’t meet your eyes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you try again. “I just wanted him to have a good time. I thought you might, too.”

“I told you,” he says quietly, wrapping the towel around Maverick’s shoulders like armor. “This kind of thing—it’s not us.”

You don’t even know what to say.

And that’s when Nick, in true older brother fashion, swoops in with zero regard for tension.

“Well,” he says cheerfully, “there’s one way she can make it up to you.”

Chris glares up at him. “Nick. Don’t.”

Nick ignores him completely. “She takes you on a date.”

You blink. “A what?”

“Not one of her dates,” Nick clarifies. “Like, not an art gallery or candle making or goat yoga—”

“I’ve never done goat yoga,” you interject.

“Yet,” Nick says dryly. “But I’m talking about something you actually want to do, Chris. Something you’d enjoy.”

Chris scoffs. “Like what, a shooting range? A warehouse tour? How exciting.”

“Hey,” Nick shrugs, counting on his fingers. “You like hikes. You like steak. You like silence. You love that weird aviation museum off Route 6. You like schedules, order, and coffee without sparkles in it.”

Chris opens his mouth to argue—but pauses.

And that hesitation is all Nick needs.

“See?” Nick grins. “There’s a spark.”

Chris finally looks at you, brow raised. “You’d actually agree to that? Something my style?”

You give a small smile. “I’m a fashion designer with two chaotic kids. I can handle a steakhouse and a hike.”

He squints at you, as if trying to figure out if you’re mocking him. “And no glitter?”

You hold up your hands. “Swear on my sticker collection.”

Chris almost—almost—smiles.

Nick pats him on the back. “You’re welcome.”

A/N- A lot of emotions. (Share your opinions!!)

[okasuka]

The sketches between us - Damian wayne x reader.

Part 1: The Classroom Encounter

The classroom buzzed with quiet energy as students worked on their art projects. The assignment was simple: depict your relationship with Gotham. Most kids were drawing familiar landmarks or simple cityscapes, but Damian Wayne was lost in his own world, completely immersed in his sketch.

You sat a few desks away, idly blending charcoal on your paper, when you noticed Damian’s intensity. Unlike the other students, who traded jokes and compared sketches, he worked silently, his pencil moving with laser focus. It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed Damian’s talent, but something about his quiet dedication today drew you in.

Curiosity got the better of you. Setting your project aside, you slid into the empty seat next to him. “Mind if I see what you’re working on?” you asked, your voice soft enough not to startle him.

Damian stiffened, his hand pausing mid-stroke. He turned his head slightly, his sharp green eyes narrowing. “I do mind,” he replied curtly.

You grinned, unfazed by his bluntness. “Too bad,” you said, leaning over just enough to catch a glimpse of his sketch. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

He sighed, clearly annoyed but too prideful to stop you from looking. “If you’re going to hover, at least don’t smudge anything,” he muttered, pulling the sketchpad closer to himself.

You ignored his irritation, your gaze fixed on the drawing. It was Gotham—but not the Gotham you were used to seeing. Damian had captured the city’s skyline in intricate detail, but there was an unexpected warmth to it. Light spilled through windows, and the streets seemed alive, almost hopeful.

“It’s not what I expected,” you said after a moment.

Damian frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean it’s… different. Gotham always feels so harsh, but this feels—” you paused, searching for the right word, “—gentler. Like you’re showing the city how you see it, not how it actually is.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he said, “That’s the point. Gotham is more than what people assume.”

“Fair enough,” you said, sitting back a little but not moving away. “You’re really good, you know.”

“Obviously,” Damian replied, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Part 2: Small Talk and Sketches

For the next few minutes, you watched in silence as Damian continued to draw. His pencil strokes were precise, deliberate, as if every line held meaning. The classroom noise faded into the background, replaced by the soft scratch of graphite on paper.

“You always draw this kind of stuff?” you asked eventually.

“Not always,” he replied without looking up. “Sometimes I draw people.”

“Like portraits?”

“Sometimes.” He hesitated before adding, “Animals, too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—Titus?”

He glanced at you, clearly surprised. “How do you know about Titus?”

“Everyone knows about Titus,” you said with a shrug. “You bring him to school sometimes, don’t you?”

“Rarely,” Damian admitted, turning back to his sketch. “But he’s better company than most people.”

“Can’t argue with that,” you said with a grin. “So, do you ever draw classmates? Teachers? Random strangers on the street?”

Damian snorted. “Why would I waste my time on people like that?”

“Not even Bruce?” you teased.

His hand faltered slightly, and he shot you a sharp look. “Father has better things to do than pose for portraits.”

“Fair enough,” you said, though you couldn’t resist adding, “I think he’d like it, though. You’re good at capturing the parts of people most people miss.”

Damian didn’t reply, but you noticed the faintest flush of color on his cheeks.

Part 3: Bruce Notices

Unbeknownst to either of you, Bruce Wayne stood at the back of the classroom, arms crossed as he observed the scene. He had volunteered to assist with the art class as part of his ongoing efforts to support Damian’s school, though he had mostly stayed in the background. Seeing Damian interact with someone—genuinely, without his usual wall of sarcasm or indifference—was a rare sight.

Bruce approached slowly, making just enough noise to avoid startling either of you. “That’s an impressive sketch,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.

You both turned to look at him. Damian scowled immediately. “Father, don’t you have something else to do?”

Bruce ignored the question and nodded toward the sketchpad. “I didn’t know you were working on Gotham.”

“It’s for the assignment,” Damian said tersely.

“And you’ve clearly exceeded expectations,” Bruce said, his tone almost proud. Then he looked at you. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bruce Wayne.”

“Y/N,” you said, standing to shake his hand. “I’m in Damian’s class. It’s nice to meet you.”

Bruce smiled faintly, his handshake firm but polite. “Likewise. I can see you and Damian have been working well together.”

Damian huffed. “We’re not working together. Y/N is just nosy.”

You grinned at that. “Guilty as charged.”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on the two of you for a moment before he said, “You should join us for dinner tonight, Y/N.”

Damian’s eyes widened slightly. “What? Why?”

“Because I’d like to get to know your friend,” Bruce said simply. “And it’s not every day you let someone sit this close to you while you’re drawing.”

You looked at Damian, whose expression was a mix of irritation and embarrassment, and then back at Bruce. “I’d love to.”

Part 4: Conversations on the Ride Home

The school day ended not long after the art class, and Damian found himself walking alongside you as Bruce led the way to his sleek black car parked out front. The moment felt strange to him. Normally, he preferred his solitude, but something about your energy made the silence less stifling.

You matched his pace easily, your bag slung casually over your shoulder. “So, does your dad always just invite random classmates over for dinner, or am I special?” you teased.

Damian shot you a sidelong glance. “You’re not special,” he said, but there was no venom in his tone. “He’s always trying to… ‘socialize’ me.” He rolled his eyes at the word.

You grinned. “Well, you could use the practice.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need practice. I know how to talk to people. I just choose not to.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you said, your grin widening. “So, do you have anything else you’re good at besides being mysteriously antisocial and really good at art?”

Damian bristled slightly at the comment, but your tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, you sounded genuinely curious. “I’m skilled at… a lot of things,” he said vaguely.

“Cryptic,” you replied. “Let me guess—archery? Chess? Fencing?”

His expression remained neutral. “Something like that.”

You smirked. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop prying. I’ll tell you something about me instead.”

Damian didn’t respond, but his curious glance was enough encouragement for you to continue. “I box,” you said, almost casually. “And I play football—soccer, if you prefer. What about you? Any sports?”

Damian’s brow furrowed. “You box?” he asked, his tone laced with skepticism.

“Yeah,” you said, raising your chin slightly. “What, I don’t look like I can throw a punch?”

“It’s not that,” Damian said quickly, though his expression remained critical. “It’s just… most people your age don’t.”

“Maybe not,” you said with a shrug. “But I like it. It’s good for focus and discipline, and it helps me stay in shape for football.”

Damian’s interest piqued despite himself. “And football? What position do you play?”

“Midfielder,” you said, your voice tinged with pride. “I like being in the center of the action. What about you? Do you play anything?”

Damian hesitated. It wasn’t as though he could tell you about the hours he spent sparring in the Batcave or his experience in martial arts tournaments across the globe. “I don’t play team sports,” he said finally. “But I do train.”

“Train for what?” you asked, intrigued.

“Self-defense,” he replied, keeping his answer deliberately vague.

“Ah,” you said, nodding. “That makes sense. You strike me as someone who likes to be prepared.”

Damian glanced at you again, surprised by your observation. “And you strike me as someone who asks a lot of questions.”

“I ask because I’m curious,” you said with a shrug. “But I’ll stop if I’m annoying you.”

“You’re not,” Damian admitted, almost grudgingly.

Part 5: Arrival at the Manor

The car ride to Wayne Manor was surprisingly comfortable. You and Damian continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily despite his usual reluctance to engage. By the time the car pulled up to the grand gates of the Wayne estate, you found yourself marveling at how much you’d learned about him—and how much you’d enjoyed his company.

Bruce glanced at the two of you through the rearview mirror, a small smile tugging at his lips as he noted the unusual ease in Damian’s demeanor. “Welcome to Wayne Manor,” he said as the gates opened and the car rolled up the long driveway.

Your eyes widened as the sprawling estate came into view. “Wow,” you said softly. “This is… insane.”

Damian smirked, crossing his arms. “It’s just a house.”

You shot him a look. “Just a house? Are you kidding? It’s practically a castle!”

Bruce chuckled as he parked the car. “It’s been in the family for generations,” he said. “But I admit, it can be a bit overwhelming at first.”

The three of you stepped out of the car, and Alfred appeared at the front door to greet you. “Master Bruce, Master Damian,” he said with his usual impeccable poise before turning to you. “And you must be Miss Y/N. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” you said, still taking in your surroundings.

As you walked inside, Damian gestured toward the staircase. “The dining room is this way. Try not to get lost.”

You laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

Damian glanced at you again, his expression softer than usual. He wouldn’t admit it—not yet, anyway—but he found himself genuinely enjoying your company. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind someone being in his space.

Part 6: Quiet Moments in Damian’s Room

Damian’s room was as meticulously organized as you would have expected. Everything had its place—shelves lined with books, a desk free of clutter except for a stack of sketchpads, and a neatly made bed. The only thing that seemed slightly out of place was Titus, his giant black Great Dane, who lay sprawled comfortably on the floor near Damian’s desk.

You sat cross-legged on the floor beside Damian’s chair, leaning slightly forward to peer over his shoulder as he sketched. Once again, Gotham’s skyline took shape under his steady hand, but this time there was a new element—tiny figures in the foreground, a vague suggestion of life amid the towering buildings.

“You’re adding people this time,” you observed.

Damian didn’t pause. “Gotham isn’t just buildings. It’s the people who live there, too.”

You smiled at his response. “True. But I didn’t think you’d care enough to include them.”

He shot you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching upward ever so slightly. “Don’t overanalyze it. It’s just a drawing.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, grinning. “Sure it is.”

Before Damian could retort, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside his room. A moment later, the door swung open, and Dick Grayson’s head poked inside.

“Hey, little D,” Dick began, his cheerful tone carrying into the room. “Bruce sent me up to—oh.” He froze mid-sentence, his gaze shifting to you and then to Damian. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. “What’s this?”

Damian groaned audibly, his pencil freezing on the page. “What do you want, Grayson?”

Dick ignored the question and stepped fully into the room, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Am I interrupting something? You’ve got company, and she’s… what? Watching you draw? That’s new.”

You smirked, sitting back slightly but not moving from your spot. “Hi, you must be Dick. I’m Y/N.”

Dick’s grin widened. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’ve gotta say, this is the first time I’ve seen Damian let someone into his sacred art space.”

“She invited herself,” Damian muttered, resuming his sketch with an exaggerated sigh.

“And you didn’t kick her out?” Dick teased, feigning shock. “Wow. You must really like her.”

Damian’s pencil stilled again, and he glared at his brother. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

“Sure you don’t,” Dick said, winking at you. “Anyway, I came up here to tell you dinner’s ready. Bruce is waiting, and you know how he gets if people are late.”

“Fine,” Damian said tersely, closing his sketchpad with deliberate care. “We’re coming.”

Dick stepped aside, gesturing grandly for the two of you to follow him. “After you, lovebirds.”

Damian shot him another glare as he got up, but you couldn’t help laughing. “I like him,” you said to Damian as you walked past Dick. “He’s fun.”

“You won’t think that for long,” Damian muttered darkly, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

Part 7: Dinner with the Waynes

The dining room at Wayne Manor was as grand as everything else in the house, with a long table stretching nearly the length of the room. Bruce sat at the head, Alfred hovering nearby to serve, and a plate was already set for you beside Damian’s usual seat.

As you all settled in, the conversation was lively, thanks to Dick’s relentless teasing and the occasional sharp remark from Damian. Tim Drake had joined as well, making the room feel even more animated. You couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed, but Damian’s presence beside you was oddly grounding.

“So, Y/N,” Dick said halfway through the meal, “how did you end up spending the afternoon with Damian? Did he actually invite you, or did you have to bribe him?”

“I didn’t have to do anything,” you said with a laugh. “I just sat next to him in art class and wouldn’t go away.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. “And he let you?”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at Damian. “I think he secretly enjoys the company.”

Damian’s fork clattered against his plate. “I do not.”

Dick snorted. “Sure you don’t, little bro.”

“Leave him alone, Dick,” Tim chimed in with a smirk. “He’s probably just glad someone’s finally willing to put up with him.”

Damian shot Tim a glare but didn’t rise to the bait, instead turning to you. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m having fun,” you said brightly.

For a moment, Damian looked as though he wasn’t sure how to respond. But then, to your surprise, he smirked faintly and said, “That’s a first.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of banter and laughter, and by the time it was over, you felt surprisingly at ease. It was clear that Damian’s family cared deeply for him, even if they showed it in unconventional ways.

Part 8: Dinner and Teasing

Dinner at Wayne Manor was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. The food was incredible, Alfred’s presence was impeccably calm, and the dining room itself felt like something out of a movie. But it wasn’t the grandeur of the setting that stood out the most—it was the energy at the table.

Dick couldn’t seem to stop teasing Damian, much to your amusement.

“So, Y/N,” Dick said with a sly grin as he twirled his fork, “what exactly is it that you find so interesting about my little brother? His sparkling personality? His incredible sense of humor?”

Damian stiffened in his seat, his knife scraping a little too hard against his plate. “Grayson,” he growled, “if you keep this up, I’ll make sure Titus chews on your boots again.”

“You already tried that,” Dick shot back, unfazed. “You forget I’m faster than Titus.”

You chuckled, but before you could respond, Dick leaned in conspiratorially. “Seriously though, you’ve got to tell me—what’s the appeal? I mean, I know he’s secretly a softie, but it must take some serious effort to get past that shell of his.”

Damian’s ears turned a faint shade of red, and he glared at Dick. “Stop talking.”

“See?” Dick said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “So charming.”

“I’m just persistent,” you said with a grin. “And honestly, I think he secretly likes having someone around who doesn’t take him too seriously.”

Damian’s glare shifted to you, but his expression softened ever so slightly. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Aw, he thinks we’re alike,” Dick said, nudging you playfully. “That’s high praise coming from him.”

The teasing continued throughout the meal, with Tim occasionally chiming in, much to Damian’s annoyance. But despite his grumbles and glares, you could tell he wasn’t truly upset. If anything, he seemed almost—dare you think it—comfortable.

When the plates were cleared, Bruce stood, thanking Alfred for the meal. “Damian, Y/N, feel free to use the library if you’d like,” he said before heading toward his study.

“You mean my library,” Damian corrected under his breath, rising from his seat. “Come on,” he said to you, his tone slightly begrudging but not unfriendly.

Part 9: The Wayne Library

The Wayne Manor library was massive, with towering shelves filled with books of every kind. The warm lighting and the faint smell of aged paper gave it a cozy, almost magical atmosphere.

“Wow,” you said, spinning slowly as you took it all in. “This is… incredible.”

“It’s just a library,” Damian said, echoing his earlier dismissal of the manor itself. But there was a faint note of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, but it’s your library,” you said, grinning as you wandered over to one of the shelves. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Damian sat down on one of the plush armchairs by the fireplace, pulling a book from the nearby table. “That depends on what you’re interested in.”

You scanned the shelves for a moment before picking out a random book and flopping into the chair across from him. “I think I’ll just see where this takes me.”

For a while, the two of you read in companionable silence. The crackling of the fireplace and the sheer comfort of the room made the moment feel peaceful, almost intimate.

After a while, you looked up from your book, breaking the quiet. “Hey, Damian,” you said, trying to keep a straight face, “what do you call a book club full of superheroes?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What?”

“A Justice Reads League.”

The silence that followed was deafening. For a moment, Damian just stared at you, his face blank. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a short laugh—sharp and quick, but genuine.

“That was terrible,” he said, shaking his head, but there was a small smile on his lips.

“I know,” you said, laughing as well. “That’s what makes it great.”

The laughter lingered between the two of you, a warm, light feeling that seemed to fill the space. Damian closed his book, leaning back in his chair as he looked at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his tone lacked its usual bite.

“And yet, here we are,” you replied, grinning.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The warmth of the room and the shared laughter seemed to settle into something deeper, something unspoken. You didn’t have to say it aloud to know that, somehow, this quiet evening in the library had brought you closer.

Part 10: Shared Moments in the Library

As the evening stretched on, the two of you remained in the library, the warmth of the fireplace making the vast room feel cozy and intimate. Damian had closed his book entirely by now, his attention subtly shifting toward you. There was something different about the way he looked at you—not with his usual guarded expression, but with a quiet curiosity.

“You spend a lot of time laughing,” Damian said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Is that a bad thing?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him.

“No,” he said after a pause. “I just don’t get it. How can you find so much… joy in things?”

His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of vulnerability that caught you off guard.

You leaned back in your chair, considering your answer. “I guess… I just think life’s better when you don’t take it too seriously. There’s so much we can’t control, but if you can find little things to enjoy, it makes the hard stuff easier to handle.”

Damian frowned slightly, as though turning your words over in his mind. “That’s… naive,” he said, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

“Maybe,” you replied with a shrug. “But I’d rather be naive and happy than miserable all the time.”

He didn’t respond, but the faintest hint of a smile flickered across his lips.

Before either of you could say more, Bruce appeared in the doorway. “It’s getting late,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Y/N, I called your parents. They’re fine with you staying the night since it’s so late.”

“Oh,” you said, sitting up straight. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne. That’s really nice of you.”

Bruce gave a small nod. “Unfortunately, most of the guest rooms are under repair, so you’ll have to share Damian’s room tonight.”

Damian stiffened, his eyes widening slightly. “What?”

“Just for tonight,” Bruce said calmly, ignoring Damian’s reaction. “There’s plenty of space in your room. Make sure Y/N has everything she needs.”

Before Damian could argue, Bruce turned and left, leaving the two of you in stunned silence.

Part 11: Sharing a Space

Damian led you back to his room, his jaw tight as though he were holding back a thousand protests. You followed, unsure whether to feel amused or awkward.

When you stepped into his room again, the familiar tidy space felt different somehow. The knowledge that you’d be spending the night there made the air feel heavier.

“You can take the bed,” Damian said stiffly, gesturing toward it.

“And where are you going to sleep?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said firmly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, crossing your arms. “We can both fit on the bed. It’s huge.”

Damian hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a logical reason to. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Great,” you said with a smile, trying to ease the tension.

As you set your bag down, you realized something. “Uh… I don’t have anything to sleep in.”

Damian blinked, then turned to his dresser. Without a word, he pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, handing them to you. “These should work,” he said, his voice clipped.

“Thanks,” you said, taking the clothes.

You quickly changed in the adjoining bathroom, the oversized shirt and sweatpants feeling surprisingly comfortable. When you stepped back into the room, Damian was already on the bed, sitting stiffly against the headboard and looking anywhere but at you.

Part 12: Awkward Proximity

You climbed onto the bed and settled on the other side, making sure to leave a respectful amount of space between you. Damian turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the curtains.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching out like a fragile thread.

“Do you do this a lot?” Damian asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Do what?” you whispered back.

“Stay up late talking to people,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “Not really. Most people aren’t that interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, the word laced with a hint of skepticism. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

“Well, you are,” you said honestly. “You just don’t let people see it.”

Damian didn’t respond, but the soft sound of his breath told you he was still awake. Slowly, the silence returned, and as the minutes passed, you both drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Part 13: Tangled in the Morning

When you woke the next morning, it took you a moment to realize where you were. The sunlight streaming through the windows painted the room in soft gold, and the faint sound of birds chirping outside added to the surreal feeling.

It wasn’t until you tried to move that you realized something was different.

Damian’s arm was draped across your waist, his face resting just inches from yours. Your legs were tangled together, and his warm breath brushed against your skin with every exhale.

Your heart skipped a beat, your body frozen in place. For all his sharp edges and stubborn pride, Damian looked impossibly peaceful in his sleep.

As if sensing your movement, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked once, then twice, before realizing the situation.

His face turned crimson, and he scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, sitting up and smoothing your hair. “It was just… I guess we moved around in our sleep.”

Damian avoided your gaze, his usual composure shattered. “It won’t happen again,” he said stiffly.

You couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness. “Relax, Damian. It’s not a big deal.”

He glanced at you then, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re… weirdly calm about this.”

“That’s because I don’t take things too seriously, remember?” you said, echoing your words from the night before.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. For a moment, the awkwardness melted away, leaving only the quiet understanding that something between the two of you had shifted.

And neither of you could deny that it felt… right.

Part 14: The Morning After

The silence in the room stretched on as Damian sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. You stayed where you were, unsure whether to laugh at his obvious discomfort or try to make things less awkward.

Titus, who had been curled up by the door all night, took the opportunity to lumber over and rest his giant head on the bed, wagging his tail. You reached out to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the distraction.

“So,” you said lightly, “do mornings here usually start with awkward near-panic, or is this a special occasion?”

Damian turned his head sharply to glare at you, but there was no real heat in his expression. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted with a grin. “I mean, it’s not like anything happened. You don’t have to act like I’m going to tell the whole school or something.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Damian muttered, though the way he averted his gaze suggested otherwise.

“Good,” you said, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Because honestly, it’s kind of nice to see you not be perfect for once. Makes you a little more relatable.”

“Relatable,” Damian repeated flatly. “Because that’s what I strive for.”

You laughed, and for a moment, his lips quirked upward in a reluctant smile.

Before the moment could stretch too far, there was a knock at the door, and Dick’s voice called out from the hallway.

“Good morning, lovebirds! Breakfast is ready, if you’re done with your… slumber party.”

Damian groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m going to kill him,” he muttered.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter this time, and you got up to head for the bathroom. “I’ll give you a head start. I just need to fix my hair first.”

Part 15: Breakfast Banter

When you and Damian finally made it downstairs, the rest of the Wayne family was already gathered around the breakfast table. Dick was, unsurprisingly, the first to notice your arrival.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s newest dynamic duo,” he said with a grin, gesturing to the empty seats.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Bruce said, giving you a polite nod as he sipped his coffee.

“Morning, Mr. Wayne,” you replied, feeling a little self-conscious under his calm gaze.

Tim raised an eyebrow as you sat down beside Damian. “So, how was sharing a room with the Demon Spawn?”

“Tim,” Bruce said sharply, though there was no real bite to his tone.

“It was fine,” you said, smiling innocently. “Though I don’t think Damian’s used to sharing his personal space.”

“I’m not,” Damian said curtly, grabbing a plate and loading it with food.

Dick smirked. “Aw, come on, little D. I bet you were a perfect gentleman.”

Damian shot him a glare. “Grayson, don’t you have anything better to do than stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Nope,” Dick said cheerfully.

You couldn’t help but laugh at their banter, feeling surprisingly at ease despite the teasing. It was clear that, for all their quirks, the Waynes were a family in their own chaotic way.

Part 16: A Quiet Goodbye

After breakfast, Bruce offered to have Alfred drive you home, and while you agreed, a part of you felt reluctant to leave.

Damian walked you to the car, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Neither of you said much at first, the silence stretching between you like it had the night before—only this time, it wasn’t awkward. It was… comfortable.

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” you said as you reached the car.

Damian shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Still,” you said, leaning against the car door, “it was nice.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes unreadable. “You’re not… terrible company.”

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “High praise coming from you.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

As Alfred opened the car door, you hesitated for a moment, then leaned closer to Damian. “I meant what I said last night, you know. You’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, his expression carefully neutral. But as you climbed into the car and the door closed behind you, you caught a glimpse of something softer in his eyes—a quiet acknowledgment that your words had meant something to him.

Part 17: Tangled Thoughts

As Alfred drove you home, you replayed the events of the night in your mind. The teasing at dinner, the quiet moments in the library, waking up tangled together in his bed—it all felt strangely significant, like the beginning of something you couldn’t quite define.

And as you glanced back at Wayne Manor disappearing in the distance, you couldn’t help but wonder if Damian was thinking the same thing.

Part 18: Cornered After Class

The next day at school had been uneventful—for the most part. Classes had gone by in the usual blur, but you couldn’t help but notice that Damian seemed quieter than usual. Sure, he was never the most talkative, but today, he seemed… distracted.

As the final bell rang and you packed up your things, you decided to head toward the school courtyard to meet Damian. You didn’t have to go far, though, because as you turned the corner, you saw him near the lockers.

And he wasn’t alone.

A group of older students had cornered him, their mocking laughter echoing through the hallway.

“Hey, Wayne,” one of them sneered, shoving Damian’s shoulder. “What’s it like being a rich kid who thinks he’s better than everyone else?”

Damian didn’t flinch or react. He just stood there, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere over the bully’s shoulder. His composure was absolute, but you could tell he was annoyed.

“What? Too good to talk to us?” another guy jeered, stepping closer.

“Maybe he’s just scared,” one of the others said, laughing.

You felt your blood boil. Damian wasn’t scared—he was deliberately ignoring them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But you weren’t about to let this slide.

Without thinking, you stormed forward, your voice cutting through the laughter.

“Hey! Leave him alone.”

The group turned to look at you, sizing you up with matching sneers.

“Oh, look, the little guy’s got backup,” one of them said mockingly. “What are you gonna do, princess?”

“I’m gonna give you a reason to leave,” you snapped, stepping closer.

“Y/N, don’t—” Damian started, his voice calm but warning.

But it was too late.

Part 19: A Lesson in Pain

The first punch landed square on the biggest guy’s jaw, the crack echoing in the hallway. He staggered back, clutching his face, while the others stared at you in shock.

“You just made a big mistake,” another one growled, lunging toward you.

But you were ready. You ducked his swing and delivered a sharp uppercut to his stomach, making him double over. Your foot shot out next, sweeping his legs out from under him.

“Y/N, stop,” Damian said again, stepping toward you, but his voice was still measured.

One of the other bullies tried to grab your arm, but you twisted free and delivered a hard elbow to his face. Blood spattered as he stumbled back, swearing under his breath.

“Enough!” one of them shouted, backing away. “You’re crazy!”

“You’re lucky I’m stopping now,” you snapped, glaring at them. “If I ever see you messing with Damian again, you’ll get worse. Got it?”

The group exchanged panicked glances before turning and running, their shouts of anger fading as they disappeared down the hallway.

Part 20: Aftermath

You turned to Damian, breathing hard, your knuckles aching from the impact. He stood there, his expression unreadable, but there was a strange glint in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said finally, his tone calm.

“Yeah, well, someone had to,” you shot back, flexing your sore fingers. “They were jerks, Damian. You shouldn’t just let them treat you like that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I had it under control.”

“By standing there and doing nothing?” you asked incredulously.

“I was assessing the situation,” he replied, his voice as level as ever. “Reacting emotionally isn’t always the best approach.”

“Well, maybe not, but it worked, didn’t it?” you countered. “They’re gone, and they’re not coming back anytime soon.”

Damian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to get involved.”

“Of course I did,” you said firmly. “That’s what friends do.”

At the word “friends,” Damian hesitated. His gaze softened slightly, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

Finally, he said, “You’re… different.”

“Thanks?” you said, unsure whether that was a compliment.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Most people either avoid me or try too hard to impress me. You just… do what you want.”

“Well, someone has to keep you on your toes,” you said with a small smile.

Damian allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re welcome,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly as you started walking toward the exit.

Part 21: A Quiet Moment

The two of you walked in silence for a while, the tension from the fight slowly ebbing away. As you reached the gates of the school, Damian finally spoke again.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “not many people would have done what you did.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging, “you’re not exactly like most people, either.”

He looked at you, his green eyes searching yours for something you couldn’t quite name. Then, after a moment, he said, “Thank you.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. “Anytime,” you said, smiling. “But next time, maybe don’t let them corner you in the first place.”

“I didn’t let them,” he said defensively. “I was waiting for the right moment to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupted, laughing. “Sure you were.”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. As the two of you walked side by side, the unspoken bond between you felt stronger than ever.

Part 22: The Question

Later that evening, after the chaos of the day had settled, you were sprawled across your bed, scrolling through your phone. You had half a mind to text Damian, maybe tease him about his stoic response to the fight earlier. But before you could decide, your phone buzzed with a message.

Damian: Why do you try so hard with me?

You blinked at the screen, momentarily stunned by the sudden bluntness of the question. Leave it to Damian to dive straight into the deep end without so much as a warning.

For a moment, you considered giving a serious, heartfelt response. But then you thought better of it. That wasn’t how you and Damian worked—not entirely, anyway.

You: Wow, straight to the point, huh? What happened to small talk?

His reply came almost instantly.

Damian: I don’t believe in wasting time. Answer the question.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. Typical Damian. You hesitated, then typed out your response.

You: Because someone has to. You’ve got this whole broody, loner thing going on, and it’s exhausting just watching you.

You didn’t expect him to reply right away, but your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Damian: So I’m a project to you.

You: No, you’re not a project. You’re just… you. And you’re interesting, even if you don’t want to admit it.

This time, there was a longer pause before his next message.

Damian: Most people would’ve given up by now.

You: Good thing I’m not most people. ;)

You could almost imagine him rolling his eyes at the text, and the thought made you smile.

Part 23: The Night Unfolds

From there, the conversation shifted. You sent him a meme you thought he’d hate, and to your surprise, he responded with a scathing critique that was almost as funny as the meme itself.

Damian: This is the lowest form of humor. You should be ashamed of yourself.

You: Admit it, you laughed.

Damian: I did not.

You: Liar.

Despite his protests, he started sending you memes of his own—ones that were somehow simultaneously overly intellectual and completely ridiculous. You found yourself laughing so hard that your sides hurt.

As the night stretched on, the two of you traded jokes, shared random observations about life, and even debated the merits of pineapple on pizza (he was vehemently against it; you were firmly in favor).

You: You’re wrong. Pineapple on pizza is amazing.

Damian: It’s an abomination.

You: You’re an abomination.

Damian: Creative. Truly cutting-edge wit.

You: Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night.

Part 24: Something More

At some point, the tone of the conversation shifted.

Damian: Why do you laugh so much?

The question caught you off guard, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Damian always had a way of cutting through the surface and going straight to the heart of things.

You: Because life’s too short not to.

Damian: Even when it’s hard?

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You: Especially when it’s hard. Laughing doesn’t mean ignoring the bad stuff. It just means not letting it win.

There was a long pause before his next message.

Damian: I think I understand that.

You: Good. Because you could stand to laugh more. It’s good for you.

Damian: I laugh.

You: Sure, in a brooding, vaguely menacing way.

Damian: Is there any other way?

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

Part 25: The Unspoken Connection

By the time the clock struck midnight, the two of you were still texting. The topics ranged from your favorite movies to Damian’s hilariously specific pet peeves, like people who misuse commas.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so at ease with someone, and judging by the fact that Damian hadn’t abruptly ended the conversation, you guessed he felt the same.

As your eyes grew heavy, you sent him one last message.

You: Goodnight, Damian. Thanks for making me laugh tonight.

His reply came almost instantly.

Damian: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for… everything.

You smiled at the screen, your chest feeling inexplicably warm. For someone who claimed to be so closed off, Damian had a way of making you feel like you mattered.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’d found something rare in him. Something worth holding onto.

Part 26: The Argument

It had started out as a normal afternoon. You and Damian were hanging out in your usual spot after school, exchanging dry remarks and teasing each other like always. But somewhere along the line, the conversation took a turn.

“I don’t get why you’re always so reckless,” Damian said, arms crossed as he leaned against a wall. “You don’t think things through. Like with those guys yesterday. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t about to let them treat you like that, Damian. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and watch?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone sharp. “I didn’t need your help. I had it under control.”

“Right, because standing there like a statue was totally working,” you shot back. “Face it, Damian, you can’t handle the idea of someone else helping you. It’s like your ego can’t take it.”

Damian’s expression darkened, his green eyes flashing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think you’re helping, but all you’re doing is making things worse.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, but you didn’t back down. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” he snapped. “You’re not some hero, Y/N. You’re just a kid who doesn’t know when to stay out of things.”

The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you just stared at him, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “I didn’t realize I was such a burden. Guess I’ll just stop caring, then.”

Before he could respond, you swung your fist, hitting him square in the chest. He barely flinched, but the impact was enough to make you step back, breathing hard.

Damian didn’t move. He just stood there, his jaw tight, his hands at his sides. “If that makes you feel better, fine,” he said quietly.

It didn’t. Not really. But you didn’t say that. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, ignoring the way your heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

Part 27: The Apology

That night, your phone buzzed with a message. You ignored it at first, still too upset to deal with whatever Damian had to say. But when it buzzed again, curiosity got the better of you.

Damian: I’m sorry.

You stared at the screen, your anger flickering like a dying flame.

Damian: I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not a burden. You’re the opposite of that.

Another message followed a moment later.

Damian: I’ll make it up to you. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you. My treat.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Finally, you typed out a response.

You: Anywhere?

Damian: Anywhere.

Part 28: The Comic Shop

The next day, Damian was waiting outside your house, dressed in his usual dark hoodie and jeans.

“A comic book shop?” he asked skeptically as you led the way down the street.

“You said anywhere,” you replied with a grin. “And this is where I want to go.”

The moment you stepped inside, the familiar smell of old paper and ink washed over you. Rows of colorful covers lined the walls, and you couldn’t help the excitement that bubbled up inside you.

“Oh my gosh, they have the new issue of Nightwing: Legends!” you said, practically bouncing on your toes.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously geeking out over this?”

“Yes,” you said, grabbing the comic and hugging it to your chest. “Don’t judge me.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

You wandered through the aisles, pointing out your favorite series and rattling off obscure trivia about the characters. Damian trailed behind you, his usual stoicism replaced by a faint look of amusement.

Part 29: The Confession

As you reached the checkout counter, you glanced at Damian, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Sorry if I was being weird back there,” you said, setting your stack of comics on the counter.

“You weren’t being weird,” he said, tilting his head.

You sighed. “Yes, I was. It’s just… this stuff makes me happy, you know? And I guess I wanted to share that with you.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he asked, “Why?”

You hesitated, your cheeks warming. “Because I like you, okay? And not just as a friend. I like you in the… more-than-friends way.”

Damian’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “You like me?”

“Yes, Damian,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I like you. Even when you’re being a jerk. Especially when you’re being a jerk, apparently.”

To your surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips. “You have terrible taste.”

You laughed, relief flooding through you. “Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” he said softly.

And as the two of you left the shop, your bag full of comics and your heart lighter than it had been in days, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something amazing.

Part 30: Damian’s Birthday Party

The weekend had finally arrived, and for the first time in a long while, Damian actually seemed excited about something—his birthday. It wasn’t exactly a birthday party in the traditional sense. Damian didn’t want a huge spectacle, but when Bruce insisted that the entire family celebrate, Damian reluctantly agreed.

It was a massive event at the Wayne Manor, with people from all walks of life—family friends, business associates, a few close classmates, and some of Damian’s more eccentric acquaintances. The grand hall was decorated with dark tones, but you could tell Bruce had made an effort to add a bit of brightness. There were trays of food and drink set up along the walls, and a live band played soft jazz in the background, trying to keep things casual.

Damian stood near the edge of the room, his usual stony demeanor intact, but you could see the small smile tugging at his lips every time someone wished him a happy birthday. You’d never seen him like this before—unusually relaxed and almost… happy.

You had already given him his gift—something you thought he’d appreciate: a rare comic book from his favorite series—and the look of genuine surprise on his face made you grin.

It wasn’t long before you noticed someone from Damian’s school walk in—one of the guys who always hung around with the “popular” crowd. You’d seen him around before, but he wasn’t someone you cared for. His name was Marcus, and he had this smug, cocky attitude that rubbed you the wrong way.

You didn’t pay much attention to him at first, but then, as you were talking with some of the other guests, you saw him approach.

“Hey, Y/N,” Marcus greeted you, his tone overly friendly. “You look amazing tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, already feeling a hint of discomfort. “Uh, thanks, Marcus,” you said, trying to keep your voice polite.

“You know, you’re a lot more interesting than I thought,” he continued, his smile bordering on flirtatious. “I mean, I thought you were just some… quiet girl, but you’re not so bad.”

You exchanged a glance with Damian, who was standing just across the room, talking to Tim. The moment his eyes met yours, you saw his expression shift—his eyes darkening, his jaw tightening.

“Thanks,” you said, giving a tight smile and trying to step back. “I’m not really looking to talk right now.”

Marcus, however, seemed undeterred. He stepped closer, clearly not picking up on your discomfort. “C’mon, don’t be like that. I know you’ve got better taste than the people you hang out with.”

At that, you felt a flash of irritation. “Excuse me?”

Before Marcus could say anything else, you noticed Damian walking toward you. He didn’t even acknowledge Marcus at first, his eyes locked on you, but his posture was stiff, tense. There was an almost palpable sense of possessiveness radiating from him as he approached.

“Is everything alright?” Damian asked, his voice colder than usual.

Marcus blinked, clearly taken aback. “I was just talking to Y/N,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No harm done, right?”

But Damian didn’t look like he was in the mood for games. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Marcus,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was a sharp edge to it.

Marcus shrugged and gave a half-laugh. “Whatever, dude. I was just trying to be friendly.”

“Then keep your distance,” Damian replied, his eyes narrowing as he gave Marcus one last hard look before turning back to you.

You were too shocked by the interaction to speak for a moment. Damian had never acted like this before, especially not over someone like Marcus.

Part 31: The Jealousy

As the evening went on, you couldn’t help but notice how Damian’s mood shifted. He was still polite with the guests, but there was an undeniable tension in his movements, a guardedness you hadn’t seen before. Every time you were talking to someone else, his gaze would flick to you, and if anyone got too close, you could see him visibly stiffen.

At one point, you found yourself talking to Tim, and as you laughed at one of his jokes, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned, and there stood Damian, his expression unreadable.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked, his tone quieter now.

“Sure,” you said, feeling a bit confused, but following him to a quieter part of the room.

Once you were away from the crowd, he crossed his arms, his eyes flashing in a way you hadn’t seen in a while. “You shouldn’t let people like Marcus get so close.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t trust him.” His voice was tight, as though he was holding something back.

“You don’t trust him?” you repeated, surprised by the intensity in his words. “Damian, he’s just being—”

“No,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his gaze now intense. “He was flirting with you. I don’t want him near you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you couldn’t help but stare at him, speechless for a moment. “Damian, I can handle myself. I didn’t need you to step in—”

“I don’t care.” His voice was sharper now, his jaw clenched. “I don’t want anyone else getting any ideas.”

You took a step back, feeling an unexpected rush of heat on your face. There was no denying it now—Damian was jealous.

“Damian, I didn’t—”

He stepped forward, his eyes meeting yours. “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked, voice low. “I don’t like seeing you with anyone else. Not when they don’t treat you like you deserve.”

You blinked, the sudden rush of emotions leaving you stunned. “What are you saying?”

Damian hesitated, his gaze softening slightly. “I’m saying… I care about you, Y/N. I care about you more than I thought I did.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, everything felt suspended. His usual guarded nature seemed to crack open, just enough for you to glimpse something raw and real beneath it all.

Part 32: The Moment of Truth

Before you could respond, the sound of the party rumbled back in, and you felt a strange tension still simmering between you and Damian. He shifted, not quite meeting your gaze now.

“You… don’t have to feel the same way,” Damian said quietly, though you could hear the vulnerability beneath the sharp edge of his voice.

You smiled softly, feeling a flutter in your chest. “Damian, I think you’re the one who doesn’t get it.”

His head snapped up, his eyes locking with yours, and you could see the flicker of uncertainty there.

“I like you, too,” you confessed, your voice steady now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian’s expression softened, the tension in his body slowly releasing. For a moment, he just stood there, looking at you as if trying to process your words. Finally, he nodded, a small, genuine smile forming at the corners of his lips.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

And with that, the two of you stood there, in the quiet of the mansion, feeling the weight of everything unsaid finally beginning to shift.

Part 33: A New Beginning

The night stretched on as the party continued. But for you and Damian, time seemed to slow. After that conversation, things felt different—better, somehow. The awkward tension that had loomed over the two of you for so long had finally broken, and in its place was a sense of comfort.

You found yourself standing at the edge of the room with Damian by your side, the two of you watching the festivities from a distance. He had loosened up, no longer the guarded, distant person he used to be. Now, there was an unspoken understanding between you, something that felt natural, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

“I didn’t think I���d actually enjoy this kind of party,” Damian muttered, his eyes scanning the room. “It’s all a bit… loud.”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, I get that. It’s not exactly your vibe.”

He glanced at you, his lips curving into a small, amused smile. “You don’t mind though, do you?”

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m with you, so it’s fine.”

Damian raised an eyebrow at that, as if measuring the sincerity of your words. “Good,” he replied, his tone softening slightly.

Just then, Bruce walked by, flashing a quick, knowing smile at the two of you. “Enjoying yourselves?” he asked, his voice light and friendly.

Damian’s eyes flicked toward him, a faint scowl on his face. “I’m fine,” he replied, his tone a little sharper than usual. Bruce just chuckled, clearly amused.

“We’re all proud of you, Damian,” Bruce said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve grown a lot. You deserve this.”

Damian didn’t respond immediately, but there was a small shift in his posture, almost as if he appreciated the sentiment. Bruce gave both of you a final glance before walking off to mingle with the guests.

You and Damian stood in silence for a moment, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that felt easy rather than awkward.

“Thanks for being here,” Damian said after a while, his voice unusually soft.

You turned to look at him, surprised. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, looking down at the floor for a moment before his gaze met yours again, this time with more intensity. “Good,” he repeated, his voice low.

Part 34: Getting Closer

As the night wore on, more and more guests started leaving, the sounds of chatter and laughter dying down. The grand hall had become quieter, more intimate. You and Damian found yourselves lingering by the doors, both of you reluctant to let the night end.

“You don’t mind staying a little longer, do you?” he asked, his voice almost hesitant now, as though he was worried you might want to leave.

You shook your head, smiling softly. “Not at all. I’m in no rush.”

The two of you made your way to the balcony, where the cool night air wrapped around you, offering a welcome break from the warmth of the party. The view from the balcony overlooked the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor, the lights from the distant city twinkling in the background.

“Thanks for making tonight… different,” you said, leaning against the stone railing. “It was nice, being here with you.”

Damian stood next to you, his arms crossed as he gazed out into the distance. “I didn’t think I’d want to do this,” he admitted, his voice surprisingly vulnerable. “But… I guess it wasn’t so bad after all.”

You chuckled. “You just needed the right company.”

He turned to face you then, his gaze intense. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said quietly, a softness in his tone that you hadn’t heard before.

You met his gaze, your heart racing in your chest. The connection between you had deepened so much in such a short time, and in that moment, it felt like everything was falling into place.

Damian leaned in slightly, as though he was about to say something more, but just then, Tim appeared behind you, his voice loud and cheerful.

“Hey, you two! Bruce is about to cut the cake. You better get in there before Alfred scolds us all for being late.”

Damian sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure I want to deal with Alfred’s nagging right now.”

You laughed, nudging him gently. “You know you’ll go anyway. You wouldn’t miss cake for the world.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s true.”

With a final glance at you, he started heading back inside, and you followed, the warmth of the party welcoming you again.

Part 35: The Tension Builds

As the night came to a close, you found yourself standing near the grand staircase, saying your goodbyes to the last of the guests. Damian was standing next to you, his posture relaxed but still carrying an air of quiet intensity.

“Are you planning to stick around tomorrow?” you asked, glancing at him.

“I don’t have much going on,” he said, a small smirk forming on his lips. “Why? You need a guide for whatever adventure you’re planning next?”

You laughed. “Maybe.”

There was something different about the way he looked at you now, an unspoken understanding between the two of you that hadn’t been there before.

“Good,” he said softly, his eyes holding yours for a long moment. “Because I’ll be there.”

Part 36: The Kiss

It wasn’t until the party was winding down that you and Damian finally had a chance to breathe. The room had grown empty, save for a few lingering guests and the staff cleaning up. You stood off to the side, chatting quietly, when Damian took a small step toward you, his expression unreadable.

You raised an eyebrow, wondering what he was about to say.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice almost hesitant. “I meant what I said earlier.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, then realized what he was referring to. “You… you like me?”

He nodded slowly, his usual confidence warring with something else. “Yeah. I’ve never said it before, but it’s the truth.”

You didn’t know what to say at first, your heart pounding in your chest. But then, before you could speak, he took another step closer, his hand lightly brushing against yours.

And then it happened—Damian, the boy who’d always kept everyone at arm’s length, leaned forward and kissed you, softly at first, but with an undeniable intensity that made your heart race.

For a moment, everything else fell away—the party, the guests, even the noise of the mansion itself. It was just the two of you, in that moment, finally realizing how much you meant to each other.

When he pulled back, his eyes were searching yours, as if asking for confirmation.

“I meant it,” he repeated, his voice low but steady. “You’re everything to me, Y/N.”

And you smiled, feeling the warmth of his words in your chest.

“I feel the same, Damian,” you whispered, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “I think I always have.”

[the-s1lly-corner]

Drawing each other (Slasher edition)

help im getting good ideas for writing but idk what fandoms to write it for so uhuh... i guess writing for the mains ones i write for! woo yeah! characters: jason voorhees, brahms heelshire, bubba sawyer, thomas hewitt, Michael myers notes: reader is GN, admin did a coin clip on whether or not the reader is an artist cws: none

JASON

sometimes sitting in the cabin all day can get a little boring, you were the one who brought up the idea of drawing each other

neither of you are particularly good at drawing but that doesnt mean the two of you arent going to have fun

hes a little embarrassed to show you his drawing of you, hes hesitant to turn the paper around to show you

you didnt have much access to many drawing supplies, a lot of what you already had was crayons and colored pencils stolen from the camp, as well as the paper

he doesnt care if the drawing doesnt look the best, hes in love with just about anything you do or anything that has to do with you

he keeps the drawing folded up and tucked in his shirt pocket!

BRAHMS

hes actually pretty decent at drawing, using that to spend his time when hes not watching you from the cracks in the walls

on top of that hes pretty confident in his ability

you, on the other hand.... i dont think he would make fun of your work, but its clear that theres only one artist between the two of you

keeps the drawing you make of him in his little hiding place in the walls

takes a long minute to look at your drawing of him, its hard to read what hes thinking in that moment

more than proud of his drawing of you, you likely have to remind him to hurry up.. hes going to spend a lot of time on it

will expect a compliment for his work- and dont think he wont compliment your work either!

MICHEAL

you got the idea while doodling random stuff in your sketchbook, deciding to take this as a moment to do something together

he doesnt get it at first but hes... probably... not going to just walk away from you

a decent artist himself, he doesnt draw often but its clear he knows some of the basics of art

very quiet while the two of you draw but its nothing new

exchanging your drawings goes without a hitch, and hes sitting there looking at your paper for a long moment... he doesnt give much of a reaction... but you do notice him tucking the paper into one of his pockets

he doesnt care if you keep his drawing or not, however you sometimes find him looking at his art if you display it somewhere

BUBBA

hes not very good at drawing, he never really gets the time to sit down and doodle- on top of that he doesnt know what to draw most of time, when he does have the time and thought to try!

loves anything you make, you dont have to be a good artist either, hes going to take in every little detail of the art

is this how you see him?

if youve added additional stuff such as sparkles or hearts, hes going to be staring even longer... thats so sweet, you like like him?

of course he already knew you did, youre both dating but seeing stuff like that in passing always feels nice

very protective of the drawing out of fear that his brothers may tamper or destroy it- at best they (namely nubbins and choptop) may tease him

THOMAS

like his original counterpart, thomas doesnt draw all that often so he hasnt built up the skill... but that doesnt mean he isnt going to try to draw you how he sees you when you sit him down to do this activity with him

takes a long time to get all the details right, doesnt want to make you look off or worse, offend you if he messes something up

you can draw him with or without his mask, but its clear that you put care into the drawing, regardless of skill

loves it so much, hangs it on the wall in the basement so he can look at it while hes working... its like a little motivational thing for him! he protects his family, and youre part of it.. he does this for you!

a little hesitant to give you his drawing, but lightens up at your delight for how he portrayed you

[turtle-taetell]

goodbye Mersmp

Super long message below!! (Funny story!)

and a message to the CCs at the end! <3

This is a piece that means so much to me. 21 months ago the designs for Theo and Faye got released. That day, i drew them! On paper with the supplies I had laying around, in a sketchbook smaller than my hand. At this point I was proud of my art but still very nervous about it. I had no idea how to draw them. I struggled a lot.

The second time I drew it, a year had passed. I felt I had been able to grow a lot as an artist and was excited to show how much I improved, so I redrew it! I loved how the lineart turned out and was so so excited to see the finished piece! But guess what? I hated it. I colored it in and still hate it to the point that I don’t even have the final version saved to my phone. It makes me feel ashamed.

But now, Mersmp has come to a close and the characters I have grown to care about so deeply have gotten their happy ending. So I wanted to give this piece that as well.

And finally, I think I can finally say I did.

I started drawing this final piece as soon as I was able to screenshot their epilogue designs. I was determined to make it right. So I sat down and drew, and drew, and drew, only taking an hour break to have dinner with a friend (don’t be like me). Finally, at 3am, eleven hours later, I was satisfied.

In this final piece are things that show just how tired I was. There are countless freckles on both characters, even under their scales! That’s a lot of dots. But wait… not the smallest. If you zoom in close enough they have pores! Much smaller than their freckles. That’s really a lot of dots! My freckle brush must have really come in clutch, right? WRONG! I dont have a freckle brush! All of this was done with one single smooth brush and I made Every. Single. Dot. Individually. That must have been pretty hard on my stylus, right? ONCE AGAIN WRONG! I don’t have a stylus! All of this was done on Ibis Paint x, a free art program, on an old janky ipad I got for free because it was so broken, all drawn with my finger. Even if I got a stylus, my ipad is too old to connect to any of them, including apple pencils.

The moral of this story is to never give up and not to let your resources limit your creativity. It doesn’t matter what medium you use, just do something to learn and keep pushing to improve. You will get there. Despite everything, you can do it.

And to the Mermp crew: Thank you for everything you have done. Through the story you have told and the community you have built, you have helped myself and others to grow in many ways. I myself learned a lot from Theo, learning that I do in fact go nonverbal at times and that does not mean there is anything wrong, and that I can feel conflicted and unsure about gender and expression. I learned I don’t need to be fixed. Just like I have now learned to look at the first redraw. I may not like it, but it is an expression of who I was at the time. Similar to Cella and Bite. Those characters may not like what they did in the past, but they are able to look back and recognize that it made them who they are today. If I always was proud of my first redraw, I may have never pressed myself to make this third one as beautiful. Thank you for the stories and lessons you have shared with us and allowing us to grow along side you and your characters.

And maybe, one day, a year or so from now, I can return to this and redraw it again, seeing what other things I enjoy in the future and how they may shape me to change.

With love, Turtle.

[sharararararara]

Cold as snow

Paring: Dark Coriolanus Snow x reader

Warnings: Sexual thoughts, masturbating, forced relationship mentions.

Author's note: Done with school, time to write.

"We never talked before," said the guy beside you. You never really talked to them, even though you have been in that academy for months no one really recognized you. You were not popular, you were just a normal student. You just wanted to have a good future for yourself.

You stopped writing in your notebook, looking up at the man beside you. "Yeah, I guess we never did," you replied, tapping your pencil on your notebook.

"I'm Coriolanus, Coriolanus Snow. You can call me Coryo if you want." Said Coriolanus. You felt awkward at that moment, you already knew who he was, he just never knew you.

He was the smartest in the class, always participating, with blonde hair, and blue eyes that you could get lost in.

"I'm (Your name)," you replied, before going back to writing in your notebook. "Need any help with that?" Coryo asked, moving closer to you. "Uh, no I got it. Thanks." You replied, continuing to write. Coryo moved back to his sit and starts to write as well.

You were glad that the conversation ended, it was awkward, very awkward. You did not even know what to say, you barely even knew him. You did not want to start the "Hey! What is your favorite color?" like you used to do before when you were little, you would just get embarrassed.

"Ready for the Hunger games?"

Here we go again, you thought before looking at him. "Not really," you replied. Coryo looked at you like you were the best art piece in the world, making you feel uncomfortable.

"Why?" He asked. "I don't know, I just don't want people to die," you replied. For you, the districts did not deserve that, you did not want to watch them strive to survive until the end.

Coryo just nodded at your simple answer, he was not gonna question you about it and besides, he only asked that question so that he can talk to you more.

The class was about to end in any second, and you just wanted to rush out of there and go home.

3 more seconds...

2 more seconds...

1 more second-

"I guess class ended," said Coryo as he stood up, packing his bag as everyone did. "It was nice talking to you, I hope we can talk more," said Coryo, giving you a smile before leaving the classroom.

You could finally go home...

"F-fuck..." he whispered, as he stroked his cock in the dimly lit room. He wanted you, he needed you. He needs you so bad and you can't fucking see it.

You smelled so good, he just wanted to fuck you on that table, making the whole class watch as he fucks you stupid.

he finally dared to talk to you and fuck your voice was music to his ears.

His cock was sensitive, he was masturbating for hours. He was so hard when he was talking to you, good thing that you did not notice the bulge poking out.

One day, he will kidnap you and fuck you for hours. He wants you to feel what he feels every time you are near him, every time he thinks about you, even the mention of your name makes him have butterflies.

He does not care if he has to force you into a relationship with him, he can manipulate you easily and even if you try to escape, no one would believe you that Coriolanus Snow would ever do such a thing.

He will have you, no matter what happens, he will have you.

He just loves you...