#pure skill and talent

[my-fall-from-grace]

also i haven’t been enough of a hater in recent days so let me just say. where’s your dirty team now? i thought the cats were only capable of winning bc they were dirty?

[mathematical-apprentice]

nobody in PXG is normal lol

[novaauster]

girl help i have written 26 pages of my aftg bjj au in the span of three days

[genuflectx]

Maaan I love the optimistic advice "keep practicing and you'll get better at art" as much as the next artist, but it always rubs me the wrong way when that evolves into "just keep practicing and you WILL 100% succeed and CAN get into the industry."

It changes from good general advice to implying you're just doing something wrong if still haven't "made it" yet. Not in the industry? Well, you just haven't worked hard enough, obviously, as if there aren't plenty of other factors that play into "succeeding” in a highly competitive industry like art.

Don’t let advice that’s supposed to be encouraging turn into something discouraging 😭

[batsplat]

BBC MotoGP commentator Steve Parrish: "He's angry with the sport. He doesn't enjoy it so much because he is so single-minded - he has to win. "He struggled with the social side of it, you wouldn't find him having some fun, a joke with the other riders, playing a game of golf or tennis in the week like some do. That didn't enter into his mind at all." BBC MotoGP presenter Matt Roberts: "Casey has been riding motorcycles since he was 11 months old and started racing at the age of four. It has been the love of his life but since moving to the UK as a teenager it has also been a source of great pressure and stress." MotoGP journalist and BBC Red Button commentator Gavin Emmett: "Stoner has said from a young age that he wouldn't be racing until he was 30, and whatever you may think about him, he is always honest and true to his word. "He's now reached a crossroads in his life with the birth of his daughter, and however much he claims this hasn't played a part, I think it makes for a convenient time to hang up the boots." BBC pitlane reporter Azi Farni: "Burnout. He's been racing bikes since he was four and he's lost the passion. He has never enjoyed the media attention and everything that comes with racing." MotoGP technical journalist Neil Spalding: "He hasn't done anything else in his life but race - it's been the most important thing in his life. But now he has a family and you only have to see him with his daughter to know that something else is much more important now."

journalists in 2012 on why casey is retiring

[immobiliter]

so we know that dehya can read seeing as she reads the letter her father left for her at the very end of her story quest ( i feel like literacy rates are not particularly great in the desert, so dehya is probably a rarity in that regard ), but i don't think she bears any great love for reading. i think she was taught to read by kusayla in his well-meaning but fumbled attempts to prepare her for a life beyond the desert ( knowing that literacy would stand her in good stead when she eventually left the desert and was employed by the homayani family ), but dehya only learned to the extent that it was a functional skill. she could read letters, she could read signs and documents and merc contracts, but you would be hard pressed to ever find dehya reading a book.

this doesn't mean that she doesn't enjoy stories, however. her father would stage plays for the whole of dakah al-ahmar and was clearly a man with a very vivid imagination who enjoyed verbal storytelling ( and for all the man's faults, as a child dehya enjoyed that escapism from the harshness of desert life ). so this means that dehya would much rather someone read or tell or even act out a story than she would actually sit down and read a book herself.

[torchickentacos]

I have a personal vendetta against b chords. what is this bunch of malarkey

[leclerking]

Wtf is going on. I think Carlos has renewed his Ferrari contract. But Charles,,, I think he hasn't. But I still can't tell where he might go 😭 I just want to see him in a competitive car ffs

Pls with the number of teams fighting for this man I KNOW FOR A FACT HE WILL NEVER FACE UNEMPLOYMENT OR WORSE JOIN A TEAM LIKE HAAS ‼️

[xcziel]

watching the last boracity "why there's no next bts" livestream and i keep being like where is xg?

saying the producers need to be younger like okay simon is right there, "global" group is right there

base in hip hop and old school r&b is right there, member-directed agenda is right there, video diaries/docu are right there, the 'alphaz' alien wolves conceit gives me the same fun vibe as the bulletproof-boyscout-bad boys concept did at debut like ???

[ltwilliammowett]

For the first time in millennia, a Magan Boat sails off the coast of Abu Dhabi. It’s a reconstruction that has taught the world much about the skill and achievements of Bronze Age sailors

Archaeology on Marawah Island, west of Abu Dhabi, has revealed that 8,000 years ago the Arabian coast was home to a sophisticated seafaring people. They built stone structures, herded livestock, fished and dived for pearls, crafted jewelry, and developed a talent for sailing that started a remarkable cultural exchange.

By the Bronze Age, around 4,500 years ago, the region was prominent enough to have a name in ancient writings: Magan. From the island of Umm an-Nar, in modern Abu Dhabi which was part of ancient Magan, merchants sailed an international trade route that connected Mesopotamia, in what is now Iraq, to the Indus Valley in today’s India and Pakistan. Magan traded locally sourced pearls, stone and copper, one of the most sought-after commodities of the time, for ceramics, fabrics, jewelry, and other precious objects. Its ships were renowned through the Arabian Gulf.

The ship was built using 15 tons of locally sourced reeds that were painstakingly prepared by being soaked, stripped of leaves, crushed, and then tied into bundles using rope made from date palm fibers. These formed the hull, to which was attached a wooden frame. The boat’s dimensions were calculated based on what is known about similar vessels as well as hydrostatic analysis of what was needed to make it float. The reed hull was then waterproofed with a coating of bitumen, which was traded from Iraq. The heavy sail, raised purely by muscle without the benefit of pulleys, was crafted of goat’s hair in a patchwork of shades.

The result was the world’s largest ever reconstructed Bronze Age vessel: 60 feet long, capable of carrying 36 tons of cargo, and achieving surprisingly high speeds of 5.6 knots.

[brokensticks]

this stupid bitch was just digging loose chips out of the garbage anyone want her

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[rosierin]

not so easy | atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu didn’t mean to spiral. but jealousy hits different when the girl you’re kinda-maybe-sorta in love with starts laughing at someone else’s jokes. now the apartment’s tense, the silence is loud, and his pride is doing everything it can to keep him from saying what he actually means.

(aka: i miss you. i’m sorry. i don’t know how to do this—but I want to.)

disclaimer; this fic will bounce between atsumu and (y/n)'s pov!

a/n; dont worry this aint super angsty, just a bit more introspective than what i usually write. ive weaved in a soft suna moment and some light-hearted bro talk :p

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

Atsumu Miya rarely got jealous.

Not because he’d never been given reason to—but because, in his eyes, he was the reason.

He had the looks. The charm. The talent. A fast mouth to back it all up and the skill to make sure it never sounded hollow. He knew what he brought to the table, and he brought it loudly. With flair. With confidence. With certainty.

Even when it came to Osamu—his twin, his mirror, the one everyone always loved in a quieter, steadier way—it had never been envy. No, with Osamu, it was rivalry. Pure and simple. The kind that lit a fire under his skin and pushed him forward. Faster, stronger, better. It made him hungry, sure—but not bitter. Never bitter.

That wasn’t jealousy. That was drive.

But (y/n)?

(Y/n) was different.

The only person who’d ever made something ugly twist in his chest and settle there like it belonged.

And it wasn’t even that she did anything. That was the kicker. She just was.

Sweet smiles, soft hands, warm eyes. Always so patient with him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Always seeing through the noise, the flash, the jokes—cutting clean through to the part of him he didn’t know how to talk about. She had this way about her—like she didn’t just look at people, she read them.

And for someone like Atsumu, who’d always been so loud about who he was… it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to be understood so quietly.

She got under his skin without trying. Without even knowing.

And maybe that was why the first time he’d ever truly felt jealous, it had come out of nowhere. Like a sucker punch. No warning. Just a quiet ache and the unmistakable sense that something was his, and someone else was about to take it.

He remembered the moment vividly.

It was stupid, honestly.

They were just picking her up from class.

The three of them had done it a dozen times—Atsumu, Osamu, and Suna strolling across campus like they owned it, waiting outside the writing building for her to appear like clockwork.

It should’ve felt normal. Like a routine.

But not today.

The simple reason being? She wasn’t alone when she walked out.

Atsumu noticed before anyone else, mid-conversation with Suna about something most likely irrelevant. His voice trailed off when his eyes locked on her. She was standing next to a guy. Tall. Kinda clean-cut in a “tries but not too hard” sort of way. He had rings on his fingers, a journal tucked into one arm, and the relaxed confidence that rubbed Atsumu the wrong way instantaneously.

They were talking. Close. Closer than necessary.

His smile was easy, practiced. And worse—(y/n) was smiling back, her laughter ringing through the campus.

It wasn't just a polite chuckle, either. Not just a soft smile. She was laughing. Head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled, the way she only did when something genuinely caught her off guard.

Atsumu’s steps faltered.

Suna glanced sideways. “You good?”

“Huh?” Atsumu blinked, covering it up with a grin. “Yeah. Peachy.”

But he wasn’t. Not when he could already hear it coming—like a freight train on a collision course with his mood.

“Don’t forget to send me those notes, sweetheart.”

Atsumu stopped dead.

His breath hitched.

Did he…?

Osamu made a noise. Suna raised a brow. Nobody said it, but they all felt the shift in the air.

“Did I hear that right?” Atsumu started, his voice cracking somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

“Uh-huh,” Suna said flatly.

“Who does he think he is?” Atsumu muttered, voice dropping into something lower. More personal.

Osamu and Suna exchanged a look. Osamu was the one to diffuse the tension, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“Ain’t that yer line?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu replied—too firm. Too quick. Too obvious.

“Didn’t realize you trademarked it,” Suna added, dry as always.

(Y/n) spotted them and waved, her smile lighting up like always—blissfully unaware that a war had just begun inside Atsumu’s chest. She jogged over, cheeks flushed, still catching her breath.

“Hey! Sorry, we ran a little late. That’s Tetsu—he’s in my poetry elective.”

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It echoed like a drumbeat in Atsumu’s skull.

He forced a grin. “Sweetheart, huh?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh—yeah, he just… says stuff like that—kinda like you do. It’s not a big deal.”

No big deal.

Right.

Totally.

Atsumu stared at her, pulse tapping loud behind his ears. “‘Kinda like me,’ huh?”

He'd almost hissed.

She blinked again, her smile faltering just enough to make something in his chest twist. Her brows pinched, just slightly, like she was trying to figure out what she’d said wrong.

“S’wrong with you?” she asked lightly, eyes flicking between him and Osamu like the latter might have answers.. “You’re acting a bit weird."

“Nothin's wrong,” he shot back—too fast. Way too fast. “Just didn’t know we were handin’ out pet names now, s’all.”

Osamu gave him a warning look. The kind that meant, pull it together.

But Atsumu was already halfway gone. His fists were already clenched in his hoodie pocket, and the words were already bubbling up.

It was the first time he’d ever hated someone for being nice—for being funny.

For making her laugh.

He didn’t say a word the rest of the walk.

He kept his eyes fixed ahead. Not because there was anything worth looking at—he just needed something to anchor him. His stare went vacant, unfocused, like his brain had gone somewhere else entirely. The path in front of him blurred at the edges. Everything around him—the footsteps, the breeze, the faint hum of traffic—faded into background noise.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Osamu making light conversation with (y/n), mulling over dinner ideas like nothing was wrong. Her voice chimed in now and then, soft and bright, completely at ease. Suna lagged behind, phone in hand, probably on Reddit.

But Atsumu barely registered any of it.

His brain was too loud. Too hot. Churning, hissing, burning.

He felt like a kettle left on the stove—lid rattling, steam building, seconds from boiling over.

He was stuck on that one stupid word. That name. That guy.

Tetsu.

He’d said it so casually. Sweetheart. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t just kicked over a landmine.

Atsumu bit the inside of his cheek.

It wasn’t even the word, not really. It was the ease of it. The way (y/n) had smiled when Tetsu said it. The comfort. The familiarity. Like it was something she expected from him. Like she liked it.

Atsumu didn’t know when she’d gotten close to this guy. Didn’t know he was part of her writing class. Didn’t know they walked together after class. Exchanging smiles. Laughing at his jokes.

All things she used to do with him.

The thought settled in his gut like a stone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Later that night, back at the apartment, (y/n) padded into the kitchen in search of tea—only to pause when she saw him. Atsumu stood in front of the fridge, bathed in dim light, staring blankly inside like he’d forgotten why he opened it.

He didn’t reach for anything right away. Just stood there a moment longer, eyes flicking lazily over the shelves like nothing in there was quite worth the effort.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

“Hey,” she said softly.

His head jerked slightly at the sound of her voice, like he’d been pulled from far away. “Oh. Hey.”

He offered her a glance—brief—before turning back around. No smile. No warmth.

(Y/n) watched his back as he grabbed a carton of milk, lifting an arm to take a long swig.

She raised an eyebrow. She didn't approach him right away. Just stood at a reasonable distance, observing. Assessing, rather.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, voice dripping with fake charm.

She gave him a slow blink. There it is.

It wasn’t the first time he’d deflected, but this time it landed harder than usual. She wasn’t oblivious. She had a very solid idea what was bothering him—and she wasn’t about to spell it out for him. Not yet. Not when she was giving him the chance to say it himself.

Part of her wanted to scoff at her own restraint. Fat chance.

“You were kinda quiet earlier,” she probed, still gentle, still coaxing.

“Just tired."

A lie. So obvious it was almost insulting. His voice didn’t have that worn-out drag she recognized after long practices or late nights. This wasn’t fatigue. This was avoidance, plain and simple.

Why couldn’t he just admit it?

Her jaw ticked once. That was the worst part—he didn’t even try to sell it. Like he was hoping she’d let it slide.

But she didn’t.

Not tonight.

“Right. Just tired.”

A pause stretched between them, taut and humming.

“I talked to Tetsu,” she added casually, watching him from the corner of her eye. “He texted me after we left. Said you seemed… intense.”

That got his attention. She didn’t miss the slight twitch of his brow.

“Oh, did he?” His voice had gone flat. “Glad I made an impression.”

(Y/n) hummed. “You did. He asked if you hated him or if you were just having a bad day.”

“Sure he did.”

(Y/n) folded her arms, watching as he tinkered aimlessly around the kitchen. Looking for a distraction. Back turned, facing her like a stone wall.

“He’s actually really nice, you know.”

She could've sworn she heard a scoff. “I’m sure he is."

There it was again. That clipped tone. The snide edge.

“Funny. You made more of an effort hiding your frustration earlier when I was laughing at his jokes.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know, if you’ve got something to say, you could just say it. Instead of sulking and being passive-aggressive about a guy who—surprise—was literally just talking to me.”

“I’m not sulkin'.”

She scoffed. “You’re definitely sulking. You’ve been avoiding me since the second I walked out of class.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue—but then he just sighed and ran a brisk hand through his hair.

“Listen, ’m not in the mood.” He finally turned to her, giving a look that landed somewhere between warning and weariness. “I’m gonna head up. Long day.”

“Nope,” she said, stepping aside to block his path, her expression sharp. “You don’t get to pull the moody card and ghost the conversation.”

Atsumu’s brow twitched. “What conversation?”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t waver. “The one where you admit you were jealous and being kind of an ass about it.”

His jaw ticked.

And for a second, neither of them moved.

The air thickened.

His voice dropped into a velvet-coated jab. “Cocky little thing.”

Before she could retort, he leaned in. Just enough to make it infuriating. His breath brushed her skin. His eyes darkened.

“If it’s eatin’ at ya so much,” he murmured, voice curling into a sneer, “why don’tcha vent to Tetsu about it?”

He didn’t bother hiding the distaste. The name rolled off his tongue like a slur.

(Y/n) opened her mouth to argue—but he was already brushing past her, his shoulder bumping hers with just enough force to make it feel deliberate.

Prick.

“See ya tomorrow,” he muttered.

And just like that, he was gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning sunlight filtered through the slats of the kitchen blinds, catching dust in its beams and painting the floor in pale, hazy stripes. The house was unusually quiet for this hour. No footsteps. No clatter of cutlery. No muffled Osamu humming through breakfast prep. Just the low, humming quiet of a place still steeped in sleep—or maybe something heavier.

(Y/n) stepped into the kitchen barefoot, hair tied back messily, a faded hoodie swallowing her frame. Her footsteps were soft against the tile, the kind that came from habit, not caution. But even still, she paused at the threshold.

He was already there.

Atsumu stood by the counter, hunched slightly, shirt wrinkled, cradling a mug in both hands. He wasn’t doing anything—just staring into the steam, eyes distant, jaw slack. Whatever expression had hardened on his face overnight hadn’t softened with sleep.

She lingered by the doorway a beat too long.

He didn’t look up.

(Y/n)’s chest pulled tight, something quiet but sharp blooming in the space between her ribs. This wasn’t new—Atsumu avoiding eye contact when he was pissed. What was new was the ache behind it. The fact that she’d stopped knowing what version of him she was going to get.

Still, she moved toward the kettle, reaching over to grab a mug. Her arm brushed his.

He stepped away like he hadn’t noticed her at all.

Right.

Of course.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, counting the seconds it took for the kettle to boil, willing herself to stay grounded. Calm. Collected. Not bothered.

But the silence scraped at her like sandpaper.

"So we're doing this, then?" she asked quietly. No heat. No sharpness. Just a weary tilt of her voice.

Atsumu didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

She turned slightly, just enough to see the angle of his profile. His eyes were downcast. Still wrapped in thought, or maybe just pretending to be.

“I said one thing. One,” she murmured. “And you made it a whole thing.”

That got him. She saw the twitch in his jaw.

But again—no answer.

Her hand tightened around her mug. She could feel the ache of it now. Not just his silence—but the effort it took to pretend she didn’t care. To match his pettiness stride for stride.

“Tetsu texted me again last night,” she added, deliberately casual.

Nothing.

She let that hang between them. Like bait. Like a challenge.

He sipped his coffee. Still didn’t meet her eyes.

Coward.

Her voice was quieter this time. Flat. “You didn’t say goodnight.”

He set the mug down a little too hard, the ceramic clink echoing through the quiet kitchen.

And then, like a final blow, he turned and left.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t glance back. Just walked out, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, footsteps heavy and retreating.

She stood there, heart stinging, tea forgotten.

Some fights had shouting. Some had tears.

This one had silence.

And silence, she was starting to realize, hurt a whole lot more.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Movie night wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

The living room was warm, lights low, a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle pushed to one corner of the coffee table. Everything looked normal—comfortable, even. But (y/n) could feel the tension in the room like static. It clung to the air, heavy and unspoken.

She sat curled into the armrest, legs tucked beneath her, a cushion hugged to her chest. Across from her, Atsumu slouched in his usual spot—hood pulled up, expression neutral, thumbs idly tapping the rim of a water bottle like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to drink it or launch it across the room.

Osamu handed her the popcorn with a soft, “Here,” like he was passing a truce flag.

“Thanks,” she murmured, barely glancing at him.

The movie played on, some half-hearted action film Suna had picked. It barely held anyone’s attention. He was slumped low in his armchair, feet on the ottoman, phone balanced on his thigh, thumb flicking lazily through some feed even as the screen ahead flashed and boomed.

Halfway through a loud car chase scene, her phone buzzed quietly in her lap.

Rin: y’all break up or sth?

(Y/n) stared at the message for a second, then glanced at him. He didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink. Just kept scrolling.

She rolled her eyes and typed back.

You: we’d have to be dating for that.

A second passed.

Rin: mhm coulda fooled me

She let her phone drop to the couch cushion beside her, face down.

Still, Atsumu hadn’t said a word.

Not to her. Not since last night.

Every word was filtered through Osamu or aimed at Suna. She could’ve been a coat rack for all he acknowledged her presence. Like she’d been demoted to background noise.

The thing that grated wasn’t the distance—it was the performance. The calculated effort to pretend everything was fine, that they were fine. Like he hadn’t iced her out in the kitchen the evening he picked her up from Uni. Like he hadn’t dropped that little dagger of a line and walked away without looking back.

She glanced at him.

He was still staring straight ahead. Jaw tight. Fingers twitching.

“Had coffee with Tetsu today,” she said suddenly, voice light.

The silence that followed was immediate. Dense.

Suna’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Osamu shifted in his seat.

Still, Atsumu said nothing.

Not even a glance.

Look at me.

“He read me one of his new pieces,” she continued, picking a kernel of popcorn, twirling it between her fingers. “He’s been working on this stream-of-consciousness thing. It's nice. Really vulnerable.”

Osamu cleared his throat. “Huh. Sounds... poetic.”

“Mhm.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I told him it reminded me of Atsumu, actually.”

A breath hitched across the room. Quiet, but she caught it.

Still, he didn’t bite.

Instead, he stood. Abruptly. Walked to the kitchen under the guise of grabbing a drink. A drawer opened. Closed. Too loud. A bottle cap clinked against the counter.

(Y/n) let out a soft breath and sagged slightly into the couch.

Suna didn’t look up. “You’re really gonna keep poking him like that?”

“I’m not poking,” she replied. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

She turned her gaze to the glowing TV screen, unreadable. “For him to grow up.”

The words left her mouth cooler than she meant them to. She hadn’t planned to say them. Hadn’t even realized she felt them until they were out in the air between them, heavy and uninvited.

Suna didn’t reply right away. Just glanced sideways, his expression unreadable in the TV’s flickering light. Then, without a word, he leaned forward, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and sat back like he hadn’t just witnessed a relationship quietly unraveling beside him.

(Y/n) pulled the blanket a little tighter around her legs. Onscreen, someone was shouting. Something exploded. The room stayed quiet.

Atsumu never came back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Atsumu hadn’t planned on going to the library.

He hated the place. Too quiet. Too cold. Too many rules and not enough snacks. If hell had a waiting room, he was convinced it looked like this—rows of dusty books, stiff-backed chairs, and the constant, smug silence of people who actually enjoyed being there.

But his apartment was too loud, the team lounge was full of idiots, and his brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let him nap. So here he was. At rock bottom. In the library. With a textbook under one arm and a pen he already wanted to snap in half.

It was fine. He’d find a table. He’d get his notes done. He’d move on.

Until the universe—as always—decided to make a complete joke out of him.

Of course the library was packed. Midterms or whatever. Every table was full. Every chair taken. Except—

His stomach sank the moment he saw her.

(Y/n). Back turned, head tilted just enough to catch the soft edge of her profile. Sitting across from none other than Tetsu Fucking Poetry Boy.

Atsumu stopped walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to internally scream.

And then, like fate had a sick sense of humor, he spotted the only available seat in the entire damn room—tucked in the far corner, across from a broken heater, a table that was just far enough to be forgotten but just close enough to give him a perfect, unobstructed view of her and her stupid, flowery friend.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

He dropped his stuff on the table with more force than necessary and sat down with a grunt that earned him a glare from the girl at the next table. Whatever. He didn’t care. He opened his book, flipped to a random page, and tried to focus.

He really did.

But the thing about libraries? Quiet meant every little sound stood out.

Every scrape of a chair. Every soft murmur. Every laugh.

Especially her laugh.

That gentle little breath of sound—the one she tried to hold back when she found something really funny. Like now. Apparently Tetsu had cracked some hilarious observation about metaphors or whatever the hell he wrote about.

Atsumu’s jaw clenched. His pen hovered uselessly over his notebook. He hadn’t written a single word. He could feel his pulse in his temple.

Another laugh.

A quiet, almost bashful, “You’re so dumb,” from (y/n), and then a hushed giggle that sliced right through him.

His grip tightened around his pen. He didn’t even realize how hard until his knuckles ached.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Of all the places, of all the tables, of all the goddamn days—

A shadow passed over his table. Then another.

“Ya look like yer about to shit yerself,” Osamu said, rounding the table.

Suna followed, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Aw, did we miss the meltdown?”

Their arrival was both a curse and a lifeline.

Atsumu didn’t answer right away. He just shoved his notebook away with a quiet swoosh and dropped his pen like a man resigned.

“Didn’t realize this was a group project,” he muttered.

Osamu and Suna dragged their chairs in unison, the legs scraping against the floor loud enough to draw a look from a girl at the next table.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Atsumu asked, narrowing his eyes at Osamu. “You bored or somethin'?”

“Speak for yourself,” Suna added. “You haven’t voluntarily stepped foot in a library since high school.”

“What can I say?” Osamu shrugged and pulled a battered notebook from his bag, slapping it onto the table. Loose pages fluttered out across the wood like confetti. “Finals got me in a chokehold.”

The paper rustling stirred the girl next to them again—her eyes already narrowed over the rim of her glasses like she’d been waiting for an excuse to hate them.

Suna turned in his chair, met her gaze dead-on, and jerked his chin like he was silently asking, something wrong?

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Just rolled her eyes, gathered her books, and stormed off with the fury of someone who’d only gotten four hours of sleep and took that very personally.

“Charmin’ girl,” Osamu muttered, flipping a page.

Atsumu sniggered and stretched, arms overhead as his joints cracked audibly—like he’d been buried in his notes for hours when in reality... He glanced down at the desk. His notebook lay open in front of him, still blank. A glaring reminder of his unproductivity.

“What about you?” Osamu asked, already digging out a sandwich from his bag like this was a picnic. “You studyin’ or tryna chat-up some cute bookworm?”

Suna reached for the half-empty pack of jelly sticks peeking out of Osamu’s bag, his movements obnoxiously smooth. “Aw, 'Samu, you shouldn’t have.”

Osamu shot him a withering glare.

Atsumu huffed a dry laugh, arms folded on the table as he angled his head downward. “I wish.”

He flicked lazily through his notes, nose wrinkling like the very act disgusted him. “‘M here for the same reason you are.”

Then, under his breath—eyes drifting toward that one table in the distance—

“’Least that was the plan.”

Neither of them missed the shift in his tone.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just exchanged a quiet look as they started unpacking their own notes.

Then, like clockwork, Suna leaned to the side, following Atsumu's line of sight. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh,” he said. Just that. One syllable, dragged through understanding.

Osamu followed his gaze. “Seriously?”

Atsumu didn’t answer.

“Yer pathetic,” Osamu said flatly, peeling the crust off his sandwich before plopping it into his mouth.

Atsumu gave him a glare that could’ve soured milk.

“Were ya spyin’ on her?” He asked between mouthfuls.

“Fuck no,” he hissed. Neither seemed convinced. “I ain't lyin’! You think I’d willingly set foot into this dweeb cesspool just to spy on ‘er?”

The duo exchanged a long, knowing look.

Atsumu clicked his tongue, agitated. “I ain't,” he repeated, more defensive. “They just happened to be here. I walked in and bam—there they were. Right in my face.”

“You could’ve walked out,” Suna offered, shrugging as he bit into a jelly stick.

Atsumu scoffed, mildly offended. “Yeah, right—and what would that make me?”

“A whiny little bitch."

Atsumu lunged for him on instinct, arm swiping across the table. Suna jerked back, grinning around the purple jelly stick.

"Leave 'em be," Osamu said coolly, reading over his notes. He didn’t even glance toward them—clearly didn’t see the appeal, unlike the other two. "They're only talkin'."

“She’s gigglin',” Atsumu hissed, barely above a whisper. “Ya don’t giggle at someone unless they’re funny. Or cute. Or both.”

“God forbid someone be funny," Suna drawled, rocking lazily on the back two legs of his chair, still sucking on that goddamn jelly stick. Atsumu resisted the urge to rip it out of his mouth.

“His jokes suck.”

“How would you know? You been on a date with Tetsu as well?"

Atsumu sneered at the word.

Date. Yeah, right. Who takes someone to the library for a first date?

But what if it wasn’t the first?

What if there had already been others?

How many others?

Atsumu swallowed hard and shoved the thought deep into the back of his skull. Clicked his tongue again.

“I don’t need to. Just look at him. He's a poetry major. I can smell his bottom shelf vanilla body spray from here.”

Suna snorted despite himself.

Osamu pressed a knuckle to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Atsumu slumped further into his chair, eyes on his shut notebook, expression tight.

Then Osamu’s voice broke the moment. Low. Blunt. But not unkind, a rare flicker of seriousness settling between his words.

“You do realize this is yer fault, right?”

Atsumu didn’t reply, nor did he look up.

He knew.

God, he knew.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

A beat passed. Long enough for it to feel like a decision.

Then Suna leaned forward, propping his chin on his palm. “Y'know, there’s this thing you can do when you like someone…”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“It’s wild,” Suna said, deadpan. “Really cutting-edge.”

Osamu glanced up from his notes, barely containing his grin.

“You just… tell them,” Suna finished.

Atsumu scoffed. “Yeah? And say what, exactly?”

“Dunno.” Suna slurped the last of his jelly stick. “That's something for the both of you to figure out."

Osamu hummed, nodding with what one might consider mild interest. “Ya wouldn’t be in this mess if ya just talked to 'er."

“I do talk to 'er.”

“Right,” Osamu drawled. “I mean properly. None of yer passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Atsumu let out a sharp breath through his nose. “She’s the one who’s all over that fuckin’ guy.”

“So what if she laughs at a few of his jokes?” Suna replied. “You sound like a 14-year-old.”

Atsumu scowled, shoulders squaring as he leaned back in his chair. “Ya don’t get it. I’ve never seen her giggle like that before. Not even with me or—” he gestured toward Suna, a flicker of emotion sneaking in. “Even him. Her childhood bestie or whatever.”

Suna’s brows lifted—not quite a challenge, but close.

Or maybe that was just how Atsumu chose to take it.

“She does,” Suna said evenly. “You’ve just never been around to hear it. (Y/n)’s a pretty giggly person by nature.”

Atsumu tried not to let his irritation show.

Tetsu was the problem right now. Tetsu.

Osamu leaned forward to grab a highlighter, casually creating a barrier between the two. “Y’know, if yer this insufferable when yer not datin' her, I’m terrified to see what happens when ya are.”

“Shut up, 'Samu. No one asked."

"I'm serious. Yer lack of communication is astoundin'."

“Plus she doesn’t owe you anything,” Suna added, smooth as ever.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened.

Right. Because they weren’t dating.

Just like Osamu had conveniently pointed out.

He already saw where this was going, and he hated it.

If they were about to lecture him on feelings and intentions and his goddamn love life, he was out.

It was none of their business. Whatever he felt for (y/n)—vague as it was, loud as it got—it didn’t concern them.

Feelings were messy. Conversations were messier.

And if there was one thing Atsumu had learned about liking someone, it was this:

You either commit, or you run.

And he’d never been good at choosing.

Not when it came to this.

Love.

"Relax." Osamu's voice sliced through Atsumu's thoughts like a knife through hot butter. “We’re not here to lecture ya. All we’re sayin’ is—talkin’s an option. You know (y/n). She’ll listen. In fact 'm sure she'd be more than happy to discuss with ya."

"She's always been the more vocal type," Suna added, shrugging calmly.

“Yer clearly bothered by the idea of them datin',” Osamu said. “So ask 'er about it.”

“'M not bothered.”

Osamu and Suna gave him the exact same look. Flat. Devoid of humour.

Atsumu cringed.

Okay. Whatever. Point taken.

So maybe he was a little peeved.

How could he not be?

The guy wore v-necks and chinos—chinos! (Y/n) could do better. She should do better.

Atsumu slumped lower into his seat.

Then, quieter. More careful:

“...I just hate how easy it looks.”

Osamu looked up. Suna’s chair landed back on all four feet.

“With him,” Atsumu added, not quite meeting their eyes. “Like... he don’t gotta try.”

That sobered them just a little.

But only a little.

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Osamu said.

Atsumu looked up, brows furrowing—almost like that stung more than he expected. Like he was trying to figure out if Osamu meant it as an insult.

“But you do,” Osamu added, voice steady. Clarifying. Grounding.

Suna nodded. “And that’s not a bad thing.”

Atsumu didn’t say anything. Just glanced across the library again—at (y/n) and Tetsu, still talking, still laughing like no one was watching.

Then she looked up.

Caught his stare.

Even from this far, he could’ve sworn her eyes widened—surprise, confusion, maybe even guilt. He didn’t know.

Didn’t want to.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, heart jumping in a way he blamed on being startled.

He hadn’t meant to get her attention.

Still, as he toyed with his pen between his fingers, his friends’ words lingered.

Talking to (y/n)...

God.

Where would he even start?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n) hadn’t even looked up when the door to the library opened. She didn’t need to—her back was already straightening at the sound of three sets of footsteps, too loud, too confident, and far too familiar.

She glanced up. And there they were.

Atsumu. Osamu. Suna.

She blinked, stunned for half a second—not at the sight of them, but at the sheer audacity.

What the hell were they doing here?

No, seriously—what were they doing here?

The library, with its creaky chairs and strict “no snacking” policy, was sacred. Quiet. Orderly. Full of mild-mannered English majors and caffeine-fuelled med students. Not... jocks. Not six-footers in hoodies and joggers who made every chair they touched squeak like a scream.

She stared for a moment longer. They looked so out of place it almost made her laugh. But the amusement quickly gave way to something tighter. Something warmer.

Annoyance.

Surely—surely—this wasn’t on purpose. Atsumu couldn’t have known she was here. There was no way he’d actually come all the way to the library just to eavesdrop.

Osamu wouldn’t let him do that. Suna definitely wouldn’t.

…Right?

She must’ve looked as annoyed as she felt because Tetsu lightly tapped her arm, pulling her attention back.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

She blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Tetsu smiled politely, but his gaze flicked to where she’d been staring. His expression didn’t change, but something in it cooled.

(Y/n) tried to focus again, nodding along as Tetsu talked through the reading. She picked at the cuff of her hoodie absently, resisting the urge to glance over.

She managed to concentrate for a few minutes.

...Until a soft thunk drew her attention again.

She looked.

Atsumu had tossed a pencil at Osamu. Osamu had dodged. And the girl behind them—bless her—had taken it square to the forehead.

The sharp What the hell?! that followed echoed through the library.

(Y/n) slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

The poor girl stood, flushed and furious. A heated whisper-argument broke out, heads turned, and thirty seconds later, the librarian was shooing the trio toward the exit.

She caught Atsumu’s eye right before he disappeared behind the shelves. His expression unreadable. She didn’t bother trying.

Tetsu turned back to her, one brow raised. “They're your friends, right?” A pause. Then he sucked in a breath—almost like a wince.

(Y/n) caught it. Just a flicker.

But she blinked it away. Maybe she was reading too much into it.

“They sure are lively,” he added, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She exhaled through her nose—half sigh, half laugh. “That’s one way to describe them.”

Tetsu nodded slowly, like he was trying to piece something together. “The blonde one… Asumo, right?”

Her jaw tensed.

“Atsumu,” she corrected, almost automatically. For some reason, the mispronunciation irked her more than it should’ve.

“Right,” Tetsu said, still smiling. “He your boyfriend?”

She spluttered. “What—no.” A scoff, her hand waving the idea away like smoke. “God, no.”

Then, after a beat—because she was curious. Because she couldn’t help herself—

“What makes you think that?”

Tetsu gave a small shrug. "He seemed... irritated the other day. I figured it was about the nickname.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think he was mad because that’s what he usually calls me.”

Tetsu arched a perfectly groomed brow, his tone dipping into something almost… accusing. “He calls you sweetheart?”

(Y/n) blinked once. “Yeah— all the time. But it's not romantic."

She said it like it was obvious. Like it meant nothing.

Because, in Atsumu’s world, it didn’t.

In fact, he called her plenty of nicknames, each one as flowery as the next. That’s just who he was: a flirt. Loud, casual, effortless, charming. He’d say it to anyone. Probably had.

She just happened to be around the most.

She lived with him, after all. So yeah—perfectly normal. Completely harmless.

Still, Tetsu didn’t look convinced. His jaw had tightened slightly, mouth flattening into something too neutral.

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say, (y/n).”

The use of her name—so pointed, so deliberate—made something in her clench. She didn’t like the tone. Didn’t like the implication. Didn’t like having to read between the lines again.

She was tired of that. Tired of guessing how someone felt. Tired of almosts and maybes and weird, strained silences.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like reading poetry anymore.

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over one shoulder as she stood. “I think I’m gonna head home,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not sure I can take another stanza about tragic lovers and unspoken longing.”

Tetsu blinked, glancing up at her. “Oh. You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ve hit my limit for symbolism today.”

He nodded, but his eyes followed her a little too long as she turned to leave.

And as she walked toward the exit, her phone buzzed.

She swiped it open.

Rin: did you see us get kicked out the library lol

(Y/n) huffed a laugh, thumbs already moving.

You: unfortunately yes 🙄 what the hell were you all doing there anyway??

The response came fast. Typical.

Rin: studying. obviously. ‘samu brought snacks. got us kicked out.

You: sure. snacks. i’m sure that’s all it was. pretty sure i saw a pencil fly across the room

Rin: lol that was atsumu but the snacks played a part the librarian confiscated them can you believe that

You: the audacity

Rin: ikr

She smiled a little. Just a flicker. But it faded as quickly as it came.

A beat passed before the next message popped up.

Rin: you alright?

She stared at the screen for a second. Then typed, slowly.

You: not really.

Another pause. Then:

Rin: wanna talk about it?

You: yeah. if that’s okay.

Rin: where are you?

You: heading home. passing near the park.

Rin: omw

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The park hadn’t changed much.

Same creaky swings. Same chipped blue paint. Same patch of wildflowers that looked like they’d been planted by accident. The sandbox was mostly abandoned, save for a single forgotten shovel sticking out like a gravestone. A breeze swept through the trees, rustling the leaves like a lazy hush.

It was quieter now—most of the kids had gone home, and the sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in a soft, hazy gold. The kind of light that made you want to stay still a little longer. The kind that made memories feel like they could sneak up on you.

(Y/n) curled her fingers around the cool metal chains of the swing, trainers skimming slow figure-eights in the dust.

Across from her, Suna was perched on the monkey bars like he had been since they were kids—legs slung over one bar, back leaning against another, phone held lazily in one hand. The golden light filtered through the trees, catching in his lashes, painting half his face in sun and shadow.

“Trying to get a good shot?” she asked, voice light.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Sun’s cooperating for once.”

She watched him adjust the brightness, zoom in, tilt slightly left. His thumb hovered over the screen longer than necessary—like he was waiting for the exact second everything clicked into place.

Then, quietly—“Did Atsumu say anything?”

He didn’t look up. Just tapped the screen one more time. “About you?”

She scuffed her shoe in the dirt. “Uh-huh.”

Once satisfied with the photo, Suna hopped down in that unbothered, fluid way of his and wandered over. The swing beside hers groaned as he dropped into it, long legs stretching out, tucking his phone into his hoodie pocket.

“Yeah. We spoke briefly. But before you ask, I’m not telling you what he said.”

She turned toward him, brows furrowed. “Why not?”

He shrugged, watching the wind tangle a leaf mid-air. “S’not my place.”

“But I tried talking to him,” she muttered, frustrated. “He just brushed me off. Couldn't get a word out of him. It's annoying. I know he's jealous—he doesn’t exactly try to hide it. But then he ignores me. Or shuts me out. I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Suna didn’t answer right away. Just sat quietly, rocking a little, watching a squirrel skitter across the gravel.

It was always like this with him. He never rushed to respond. Letting her words hang in the air like low-hanging fog. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it never was with Suna. Just thoughtful. He let moments breathe. Let the thoughts come in their own time.

She heard the gentle jingle of his chains as he shifted. Then came his voice, soft and even.

“Just give him time. Like I said, we talked. It wasn’t much, but… he came forward in the end. I think he’s thinking about it just as much as you are.”

She didn’t respond right away. Her gaze followed the light bleeding through the treetops, catching flecks of dust in the air like glitter.

“Really?” she asked eventually, more hopeful. “You actually think so?”

Suna nodded slowly. “Mhm. Just be patient with him. You know what he’s like—he hasn’t got it all figured out yet.”

(Y/n) let out a dry laugh. “That sure is a nice way of phrasing it.”

He huffed, something that could’ve been a laugh of his own. Then, for the first time, he turned to look at her. His smirk was soft. Teasing. Familiar.

“What are you two like, eh?”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave her a flat look. Raised a brow. Said nothing.

When she didn’t drop it, he finally leaned back against the swing, arms resting on the chains, eyes skyward.

“You and Atsumu. Always dancing around each other. When are you gonna fess up?”

“There’s nothing to fess up,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice went quiet. “I don’t know.”

Suna didn’t press. He just… stayed. Listened.

And so, she kept talking.

“It’s hard to tell with Atsumu. Some days it’s like he’s pulling me in, and other days it’s like I don’t exist. I try not to let it get to me, but... it does. It makes me feel stupid. Like I’m chasing something that’s only real in my head.”

The words fell out easier than she’d expected. She didn’t usually say things like that. Not even to herself.

Suna was quiet for a while. He didn’t look at her. Just let the chains creak beneath him as he rocked gently back and forth.

Then—just once—he glanced her way.

Something flickered in his eyes. The kind of look you only catch if you’re really paying attention. And she was. But it was gone just as quickly.

He leaned back again, legs stretching farther. “You’re not stupid.”

She breathed out slowly. “Thanks.”

Another silence passed, this one lighter.

“I’ll wait,” she said after a while. “Like you said. I’ll be patient. I just…” she shifted her grip on the chains, “I hope he doesn’t take too long. The house feels weird lately.”

Suna nodded once. “He’ll come around.”

“You sure?”

“No,” he said, smirking slightly. “But it sounds better than ‘maybe.’”

She laughed. That soft, airy kind—the kind you don’t even realize you’ve been holding in.

The sun dropped lower, casting the swings in long shadows. The wind stirred the trees. In the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes tinkled lazily.

They didn’t talk much after that—just sat there, rocking slowly, watching the sky turn honey and then violet.

No drama. No tension. Just quiet company.

And for a while, that was enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which was stupid, really—because most days he’d kill for some peace. But now, with the sun low and bleeding orange through the living room blinds, all that quiet did was piss him off.

He paced.

Not on purpose. Not even consciously. Just… back and forth, socked feet dragging along the scuffed wooden floor. One hand tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, the other stuffed deep into his pocket, pulling the fabric down like it might ground him.

Where the hell were they?

He didn’t need to ask. He knew.

(Y/n) and Suna were out. Probably talking. Probably somewhere breezy and warm and not here, while Atsumu stewed in a thick, molasses-flavoured mix of annoyance, regret, and something else he refused to name.

He paused by the window. Squinted.

Still no sign of them.

“Quit pacin'. Yer gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Osamu said from the couch, voice lazy. Barely looked up from his phone.

“‘M not pacin',” Atsumu snapped.

“You are.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be if someone—” he cut himself off, jaw tight.

Osamu just looked at him. That stony expression that always made Atsumu feel like a ten-year-old throwing a tantrum. He turned away before his brother could say something actually annoying.

He hated this. The waiting. The guessing. The not knowing where she was or what she was thinking. Who she was laughing with. What she was saying.

He’d seen the text on Suna's phone. Hadn’t read it—just saw the preview flash up on the lock screen. A little part of him itched to unlock it. To see if maybe they had said something about him.

It didn’t.

And even if it did, what then?

Was he gonna scroll through their conversation like some jealous ex-boyfriend?

He wasn’t even her boyfriend.

God.

Atsumu scrubbed a hand over his face and slumped onto the edge of the couch, elbows to knees, head in his hands. The silence buzzed louder now, filling all the cracks in the room that she usually softened.

He missed her voice. Her laugh. The way she always had a mug in her hand, never drank from it, just carried it around like a comfort object. He missed her random shower thoughts. The way she kicked her feet sometimes when she was on her phone, unabashed when an edit of her favourite character came up on her 'for you' page. The sound of her bedroom door creaking.

He missed her.

And it was ridiculous. Because she wasn’t gone. She was just… elsewhere. With Suna.

And Suna got her. Always had.

That part didn’t usually bother Atsumu—except now it did.

Now, it bothered the hell out of him.

She’d gone to him, hadn’t she? When everything got awkward. When Atsumu had snapped at her in the kitchen. She’d walked away, and she’d gone straight to someone else. Which, fine. That was fair. That was her right.

But it still stung.

Atsumu sank into the couch, tilted his head back and let out a slow exhale, like maybe if he breathed deep enough he could push the weight off his chest.

“She’s not mad at ya,” Osamu said, out of nowhere.

Atsumu blinked. “Did I ask?”

“No,” Osamu replied, cool as anything. “But yer face is loud.”

Atsumu muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin'.”

They sat in the golden hush of almost-evening. The kitchen clock ticked in the distance, the kind of mundane background noise that felt cruelly loud when you were going insane inside your own head.

“I don’t get it,” Atsumu muttered, half to himself. “She knows ’m jealous. So why won’t she just… say somethin'?”

He hated saying it. Jealous. But Osamu knew better than anyone, was privy to all the ugly feelings that stirred inside his brother's heart. He'd perhaps be the only person Atsumu would ever admit them to.

Osamu didn’t look up from his phone. Just hummed low in his throat and replied, “Say what?”

Atsumu opened his mouth.

Closed it.

What did he want her to say?

That she noticed? That she cared? That she liked him back?

His mouth twisted. “I dunno,” he said lamely. “Somethin’. Anythin’.”

Osamu finally set his phone down, the click of it hitting the table louder than necessary.

“Were ya expectin’ her to apologise?”

Atsumu bristled. “No. I—no.”

“What, then?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Because the truth was—yeah. Kinda.

Not an apology, exactly. But some kind of… recognition. Like maybe she’d look at him and say I see you. I get it. I feel it too.

And maybe that made him a jerk.

But still.

Still.

“I don’t know,” Atsumu said again, voice sharp now. Frustration gnawing at him like a bloodhound. “I don’t know, okay? I just��"

He cursed under his breath. Pushed his back off the couch again. His head dropped low.

Osamu watched him quietly for a moment before sighing. “Maybe she’s tired of bein’ the only one who says stuff.”

Atsumu didn't raise his head, just glanced at his twin. “Huh?”

“She always meets you halfway,” Osamu said. “Always puts in the effort. Maybe she’s waitin’ to see if you’ll do the same.”

Atsumu went quiet.

Because deep down, he knew Osamu was right.

He never said it first. Not when it mattered. Always wrapped it up in jokes, or flirty one-liners, or fake indifference. Anything but real words. Anything but actual feelings.

Because actual feelings?

Those meant vulnerability.

Those meant risk.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

...Was he?

His eyes drifted to the front door again. Wondering if she’d walk through it. Wondering if she’d look at him. Wondering if he’d know what to say when she did.

He didn’t.

But maybe… maybe he wanted to try.

He ran a hand through his hair, mumbled into the room, “Think I messed up.”

Osamu didn’t gloat. Didn’t tease. Just leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Then fix it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The front door creaked open with a push of her palm, the familiar groan of the hinges dragging out into the quiet apartment.

She stepped inside, soft-footed, like her presence might echo.

Suna followed behind, wordless as always, slipping his shoes off with that same lazy, practiced ease. For a second, they just stood there in the entryway, the stillness stretching around them like plastic wrap—tight, uncomfortable.

The hallway smelled like soy sauce and garlic. Osamu was cooking.

(Y/n) didn’t hear music though, which was strange. The kitchen was never silent when he cooked. No playlist humming through a speaker. No news show playing in the background. Just the hiss of something on the stovetop, the low clatter of utensils. And—

A sound.

The couch creaked.

She didn’t look.

She knew.

Instead, she toed off her shoes and offered a quiet “thanks” to Suna, who gave a non-committal nod and wandered off in the direction of his room, phone already out. Her own fingers curled slightly at her sides. Her palms felt hot. She wasn’t sure why.

Or—no. That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

He was here.

And she could feel it.

Feel him.

Even without looking, she knew he was sprawled across the couch like always. She could practically hear the way he was pretending not to notice her. The quiet shuffle. The strained stillness.

God.

Why did it feel so different?

Why did the air feel so heavy?

(Y/n) cleared her throat and headed for the kitchen, willing her steps to stay even.

Osamu stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan. His eyes flicked toward her, brief but not unkind.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Wasn’t hungry earlier.”

He nodded once, like he understood. “It’ll be ready in ten.”

“Thanks.”

The silence was less awkward here, but still not comfortable. Not really. Osamu, ever the unbothered one, didn’t push. Just continued cooking with the same practiced calm he always carried.

(Y/n) lingered near the fridge, fingers tapping idly against the handle. She wasn’t thirsty. She just needed something to do.

“So,” Osamu said after a pause, “how'd the date go?”

She turned sharply, blinking. Oddly enough, she couldn't tell who he was referring to. Her study session with Tetsu, or her impromptu outing with Suna.

Not that it mattered. She knew what he was trying to do.

His face was neutral—but his eyes were teasing. And that said enough.

She clicked her tongue, but it was anything but hostile, if not a bit thankful. “Zip it, you."

A soft chuckle. “Just tryna ease the tension."

She huffed, but it soothed something in her chest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the faintest movement—just a shift of a leg over the side of the couch, the tiniest rustle of fabric. Her throat tightened.

Still, she didn’t look at him.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Didn’t trust herself to, anyway.

Osamu slid the pan off the burner and lowered the heat. “He was a pain while you were gone.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

They both knew who he meant.

She glanced toward the stairs. Her room upstairs. Her retreat. Her escape.

“Alright,” she murmured. “I think I’m gonna go—”

“Wait,” came a voice behind her.

Not loud.

Not urgent.

Just there.

Like it had been waiting.

(Y/n) froze. Turned her head slightly. Atsumu stood halfway off the couch, one hand gripping the back of it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.

His eyes met hers—and dropped just as fast.

The silence that followed was jagged.

“Are you—” he started. Then stopped. His mouth opened again, but no sound came out. His shoulders sagged the tiniest bit, like whatever fight he’d worked up had drained out of him the second he saw her.

She tilted her head.

Waited.

But he said nothing.

Just sank back onto the couch with a muttered, “Never mind.”

Osamu didn’t hide the sigh that escaped his chest.

Suna, reappearing at the hallway edge with a protein bar half-unwrapped, squinted at them all like he'd walked in on an unfinished scene.

Nobody said a word, letting the awkwardness hang in the air.

Osamu was the first to break it.

He scratched the back of his head. “Honestly.”

(Y/n) didn’t look back to the couch.

Didn’t stay, either.

She turned and climbed the stairs.

Every step heavier than the last.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He didn’t move at first.

Not when she turned.

Not when she climbed the stairs.

Not even when her door clicked softly shut—quiet, polite, final.

He just sat there.

Still.

Sprawled across the couch like dead weight, eyes fixed on the ceiling as the last sliver of sunlight bled out through the windows.

For a second, he thought he might actually fall asleep.

But that would’ve required peace. And tonight, peace was in short supply.

He groaned—loud, frustrated, full-bodied—and dragged both hands down his face until his cheeks burned.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, to no one in particular.

Then he pushed himself up, stomped toward the stairs loud enough to draw attention, and slammed his bedroom door a little too hard.

The room was dim. Warm gold edged the corners of his blinds, spilling faint strips of light across his desk. It painted soft shadows on the wall—shapes that didn’t matter. Nothing in here really mattered. It all felt too small. Too hot. Like he couldn’t stretch out without touching something that reminded him of her.

He sat on the edge of his bed.

Stared at the floor.

And then, slowly, like it might explode if he moved too fast, he reached for his phone.

The screen lit up with a dozen stupid notifications. Group chats. A calendar reminder for weights tomorrow. Osamu sending him a TikTok with a caption that just read: you. He ignored all of it.

Opened her name.

And stared.

Just stared.

The chat window was blank.

He hadn’t messaged her all day. Or the day before. Not since—

He swallowed. Didn’t finish the thought. He'd never gone this long without texting her.

He started typing.

hey.

Then:

sorry i’ve been weird.

Then:

i know ive been an ass lately. i didnt mean it. okay, maybe i did. but its not because of you. not really. i just

He stopped.

Read it back.

Scowled.

Deleted all of it with one angry thumb.

Started over.

you and tetsu a thing?

Deleted that too.

do you wanna talk?

Backspaced it, letter by letter, like each key was pressing into his brain.

He tossed the phone onto his comforter and flopped backwards onto his bed, arms flung wide like he might summon answers from the ceiling.

What the fuck was he supposed to say?

Sorry I got jealous because another guy called you sweetheart?

Sorry I don’t know how to be normal when it comes to you?

Sorry I think I like you but I don’t know how to say that without making it weird and fucking everything up?

He groaned again, dragging a pillow over his face.

He hated this. He hated feelings. Hated how they sat on his chest like bricks, heavy and unrelenting. Hated how they didn’t go away just because he ignored them.

And God, he’d tried to ignore them.

He really, really had.

He thought maybe if he flirted like usual, if he brushed it off with jokes, if he let it simmer beneath the surface without naming it—maybe it’d go away. Maybe it’d stay casual.

But it didn’t feel casual anymore.

Not when her smile was the first thing he looked for in a room.

Not when silence from her felt like punishment.

Not when the idea of her with someone else made his skin crawl.

He sat up again, dragging a hand through his hair.

This was ridiculous.

He was ridiculous.

He looked at the door. Then back at his phone. Then back at the door.

Then stood.

Walked to it.

Paused.

Stared at the handle like it was a detonator.

If he knocked, there was no going back. No pretending nothing was wrong. No more brushing it off. He’d have to face it. Face her. And maybe that scared him more than anything.

He sighed.

Then—

The door across the hall cracked open.

Light spilled into the hallway.

And there she was.

They both froze.

Two doors, two hearts pounding, one painfully timed coincidence.

Like idiots in a teen drama. Like deer caught in headlights. Like everything was about to change and neither of them knew what to do about it.

He hadn’t meant to see her.

She hadn’t meant to see him.

Yet here they were.

Atsumu’s hand was still on the doorknob. Her hand was still curled around the railing. The soft lighting from her room spilled out into the hall, warm and golden, catching the strands of her hair and painting her in a glow that made his breath stick in his throat.

Her eyes widened when she saw him. Not in shock. Not quite. More like… hesitation. Surprise layered with something he couldn’t name.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hey,” he echoed, quiet. Tight.

His fingers slipped off the doorknob.

She stood straighter, but didn’t move. Didn’t leave. The silence between them clung like fog—thick, hesitant.

He looked tired.

She saw it in the slope of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, the pinch between his brows.

He looked at her like she might vanish.

She looked at him like she was bracing for impact.

“I was just…” he gestured vaguely toward the stairs, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunno. Nothin’. Forget it.”

She didn’t.

“Were you coming to talk to me?”

He hesitated.

Then—too slow to pass as casual—he nodded once.

“Oh.”

Her fingers tightened on the railing. He noticed.

There was that twitch in his jaw again. The same one from the other day. She could see him wrestling with himself.

“Can we…” he gestured toward her room. Then flinched. “I mean—only if yer okay with it.”

She nodded, wordless.

He followed her inside.

Her room smelled like her. Like strawberries and peony and something warm underneath—comforting, familiar, terrifying. He didn’t sit until she did. When she dropped onto the edge of her bed, he took the desk chair across from her, backwards, arms resting on the top like a makeshift shield.

They didn’t speak.

For a second, they just sat there.

Her eyes flitted to his face. She could tell he was thinking. Could feel the war in his head.

Say it, she wanted to tell him. Say what you came here to say.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ve been…”

He trailed off. Then tried again.

“I’ve been actin' like a dick.”

She blinked, caught off guard. Then, slowly—“Yeah. Kinda.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so self-deprecating.

“I didn’t mean to take it out on ya,” he said. “I just…” His hand opened, then closed. “I dunno. I get… weird. When I don’t know how to say shit.”

“Uh-huh. 'Weird' isn't exactly the word I'd choose."

He glanced up—saw the faint smile tugging at her mouth, despite everything. It made something loosen in his chest.

“It ain't about him,” Atsumu said quickly. “Well—okay. It is. But not like that. I'm not mad ‘cause ya talked to 'im. I'm mad because—fuck, this sounds so stupid.”

“Go on?"

He stared at the floor.

Then: “I didn’t like how easy it looked.”

She frowned. “What did?”

“You. With him. Laughin'. Like it wasn’t hard. Like it didn’t take effort.”

(Y/n) stayed quiet, watching, waiting...

He met her eyes again. “I don’t know how to be easy with you.”

The words landed.

Heavy. Honest.

Something in her throat tightened.

She needed to make sure...

She shifted slightly. Her legs crossed at the ankle. Her fingers knotted in her hoodie sleeve. “When you say ‘easy’, you’re not just talking about making me laugh… are you?”

Atsumu's gaze drifted to the floor again.

God, he hated this.

Hated the tightness in his chest. The erratic pulse hammering in his throat. The heat coiling beneath his skin like it was trying to crawl out through his pores.

He made her laugh all the time. That wasn’t the problem. He could make her wheeze, snort, cry real tears from laughter—he knew that. He relied on that.

But that wasn’t what he meant.

Not really.

Easy meant... simple. Uncomplicated. Clean.

Tetsu didn’t hesitate around her. He didn’t second guess every word, didn’t overanalyse every glance, didn’t wrestle with the sick twist in his gut when she smiled and it wasn’t at him.

Easy meant: no stakes.

No fear of ruining everything.

No trembling line between friendship and something else.

Whatever this was with (y/n), it wasn’t easy.

He was too aware of her. Of her presence. Of the way his heart did stupid shit when she touched his shoulder or said his name just a little too softly.

Feelings like this weren’t easy.

They were messy.

And loud.

And goddamn terrifying.

Saying that out loud took more nerve than he had in him tonight.

His eyes flicked up once, lingered on her for a second too long, then dropped again.

“No.”

More silence.

She could feel her pulse in her throat now. Her hands had gone cold.

He hadn’t said it—not outright—but she knew.

She always knew with him.

His silence said more than any overconfident one-liner ever could.

She breathed in through her nose, slow and measured. “You’re not supposed to try so hard,” she said at last. “If something bothers you, you just have to... talk to me. Like this. Like right now.”

“I didn’t know if I could.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed. “Because…”

Because I think I like you.

He couldn’t say it.

Not now.

Maybe in another universe. One where he didn’t fumble every good thing that landed in his lap. One where he didn’t ruin things before they ever had the chance to bloom.

Maybe then.

But not here. Not now.

Fear. Doubt. Pride.

They wrapped around his heart like a vice.

Whatever expression he was wearing must’ve given it away, because she tilted her head just slightly, and her voice came gentler.

“If now’s not the right time, then… don’t. I’d rather you didn’t say anything if that's the case. Just… don’t hide behind attitude. Don’t shut me out.”

And that—god—that did him in.

Because she was too kind.

Too patient.

Too good.

He didn’t deserve that softness. Not after everything. Not after the way he’d acted. Not just about Tetsu—about everything. Every time he made her doubt, every time he backed away. Every time he was too much of a coward to commit to anything more than... this.

She should be mad at him. She should be cutting him down with a few choice words and turning her back on him for good. She should be—

But she wasn’t.

She was still here.

Still looking at him like he was worth understanding.

Still giving him the grace to figure it out.

It made him feel worse.

But it also made him want to be better.

For her.

“I thought if I ignored it, it’d go away,” he said, quieter now.

She smiled—sad, knowing.

Something twisted in his gut. “It never does.”

He looked at her again.

Really looked.

And she let him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. Voice small. Stripped.

A beat passed. Maybe two.

Her face didn’t change. But her body relaxed a fraction.

She nodded once. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

She smiled then—soft and honest.

His heart pulled taut in his chest, stretched so tight it nearly gave out. But he smiled back anyway.

It was lopsided. A little wobbly.

A little too hopeful.

The silence between them softened, turned companionable—like a blanket pulled just barely up to the chin. Safe, but not quite warm.

She moved first, rising from the edge of the bed with a sigh, brushing non-existent lint off her sleeves.

“I’m heading down,” she said lightly. “Osamu’ll start mourning that stew if no one eats it.”

Atsumu stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. ‘Samu gets all dramatic when he’s ignored.”

(Y/n) gave a soft laugh, passing him on her way to the door.

Just before she left the room, she paused. Turned her head.

“I’m glad we talked.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then, because it felt like the only thing he could do—he reached out.

Just a little.

Just enough to catch her pinky in his for a second as she passed.

She glanced down at their intertwined fingers.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t linger, either.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And Atsumu was left standing there.

Hand still curled like it remembered.

Chest too full.

Room too quiet.

And somehow, still not ready to follow.

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Meet Cute

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

There were worse ways to die, you supposed.

You could've been mauled by a rabid Suriel.

Or trampled by a particularly aggressive herd of Illyrians during training.

But no. Your fate was to perish from sheer mortification, sprawled across the chest of the most feared male in Velaris.

And, in all likelihood, take him down with you.

Twelve Hours Earlier...

Life in Velaris was, for the most part, peaceful. You loved it here: the bustling markets, the shimmering Sidra, the endless opportunities to get lost in one of the city's many bookstores or cafés.

You had grown up in the Night Court, an ordinary High Fae with no claim to power, no noble name. No extraordinary skill besides the ability to make friends with everyone. (And, perhaps, your uncanny ability to trip over nothing.)

That was why you worked where you did. The Velaris Botanical Archives was the perfect job. Curating and cataloging the history of rare flora, researching the best ways to preserve the Night Court's unique plant life.

You adored every part of it.

Except for the fact that the bookshelves were designed for Illyrians.

Which was how you ended up in this situation.

All you'd wanted was a book on Moonbloom flowers. A single book. But when you asked the head librarian for assistance, she'd waved you off, muttering something about "independent young fae" before disappearing.

So. That left you and your greatest foe.

A ridiculously tall bookshelf.

The logical solution? Climb.

Was it your smartest idea? No. But it wasn't the first time you'd scaled one of these shelves, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

You had nearly reached the book when...crack.

The shelf trembled beneath you.

Your stomach plunged.

"Oh, no," you breathed, right before the entire world tilted.

And then you were falling.

Present Moment.

The only upside to your current predicament was that you hadn't been crushed beneath an avalanche of books.

The downside?

You were currently draped over Azriel.

The Azriel.

The Shadowsinger. The Night Court's lethal spymaster. A legend whispered about in the darkest corners of Prythian.

And you had just fallen on top of him.

The world had gone deathly silent.

You didn't dare breathe.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, you lifted your head.

And...oh. Mother above.

Azriel lay beneath you, sprawled against the floor like he'd been tackled from the heavens. His wings flared slightly behind him, dark as the night sky, his hands firm on your waist where he had somehow instinctively caught you.

His hazel eyes, rich and unreadable, blinked up at you in pure disbelief.

You, meanwhile, were a very mortified starfish.

"I am so sorry," you gasped, scrambling to move. In your rush to not be straddling the Night Court's most terrifying male, you made a fatal mistake.

Your foot slipped on a fallen book.

And like a damn fool, you face-planted right back onto his chest.

Azriel let out a very slow, very deep breath.

You felt the rumble of it beneath you, his self-restraint practically vibrating through his muscles.

His voice, when it finally came, was dangerously calm.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

You squeaked, immediately trying to push yourself up again, but your elbow landed on his stomach.

Azriel made a very small, very controlled noise. A sound that might have been a grunt.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, wait, no! I just..." You sucked in a breath. "This isn't what it looks like."

Azriel arched a slow, painfully unimpressed brow. His gaze flickered to your current position: fully draped over him like an overeager blanket.

"Really?" he drawled.

You swallowed. "Okay," you admitted, "this is exactly what it looks like."

A choking noise came from somewhere nearby.

And that was when you realized you had an audience.

At the entrance of the library, standing in a semi-circle of unholy amusement, were Rhysand, Cassian, Mor, and Amren.

Cassian's entire face was rapidly turning purple as he tried and failed to hold in his laughter.

Mor gasped before cackling so hard she stumbled against Rhys.

Rhysand's lips twitched, but his violet eyes gleamed with utter delight.

And Amren? Stoic, ancient Amren?

She merely crossed her arms and muttered, "Well. This is interesting."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Just spontaneously combust into fae dust.

Azriel, to his credit, was silent. Completely unreadable. But the way his wings twitched, the way his hands were still on your waist...

You felt it then.

A shift.

A sensation that curled into your ribs, warm and terrifying.

Your eyes met his again.

And there, in the depths of those night-kissed irises...

Recognition.

The world tilted.

Your breath caught.

"Oh no," you whispered.

Azriel blinked, his expression sharpening, like something had just slotted into place. Like he felt it, too.

A single second stretched into eternity.

Then, finally, finally, Azriel exhaled.

"Oh no."

And that was the exact moment Cassian completely lost his mind.

The roar of his laughter shattered the silence. His wings flared as he doubled over, hands on his knees, absolutely howling.

Mor collapsed against Rhys, wheezing.

Rhysand sighed through his smirk, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order."

Azriel was still beneath you.

Still touching you.

Still looking at you like you'd just flipped his entire existence upside down.

And you?

You did the only thing your panicked, humiliated, fate-cursed mind could think to do.

You covered your face with your hands and wailed,

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?"

Note: Wrote this during an eight-hour layover. Gotta love airport inspiration! Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be tagged for future chapters! ☺️

[poguehearted77]

Between The Lines

Summary-> It's the little things that go on behind the scenes between you and Drew that makes your chemistry electric.

Belongs to my: OBX Season 5: Payback for Maybank Series

These can be read in any order!

"Park place." Maddison narrates where Drew lands his dog piece across the monopoly board. "I'll buy it." He says but your hand is in his face, "Not so fast. I'm sure you would love to buy it if I didn't already have a hotel on it. You owe me $1500. Pay up." You show him your open palm, ready for lots and lots of cash.

"He's so cooked. Look at that pathetic stack of cash Drew has. I've got piggy banks with more than that." Jonathan's comments send the four of you erupting into a fit of laughter which eventually dies down to a patient silence. "Sometime today would be great." Madison clears her throat.

"Josh is coming!" Drew points, appealing to your gullibility and you all fell for it. By the time you realized he was bluffing, the board was tossed and the pieces were all out of place. He gets up and runs off as if he already knew you'd be hot on his heels.

Your outburts left JD and Madison alone to pick up the pieces, but not without an interesting conversation. "50 bucks they're together by the time we finish the season." Madison says it so casually as she reaches underneath the couch for the pieces.

"So I'm not crazy? You see it too?" He looks almost relieved. "Trust me, I've got a knack for these things." JD seems skeptical about the timeline of the bet. "I dunno, we finish filming in four months. That might be too soon, I say by the premiere."

The both of them look up to Carlacia who seemed to have been streaming live on her istagram. She enters the room mumbling something about getting winded by you and Drew sprinting past her.

Madison scoffs, "That's like nine months from now. They could get together and break up by then, but you know what-- If that's what you wanna bet, then be my guest." She holds out her hand and JD shakes on it. "You're on."

"We're ready for you guys." One of the assistants notifys them that it was time to head to the screening room where the weekly table reads were held.

Today would be your first look at the script for the second episode, and to say you were shocked was an understatement.

Script Summary:

Eventually the pogues put their trust in Piper and she gives them a fair exchange of some arms that they can handle, while she opts for her weapon of choice, a steel pipe.

"How do you think I got the name and the scar?" She says and it puts an odd sense of comfort among the group, minus a skeptical Rafe, to know you were confident enough in your skills that you didn't need a gun.

They beleived they were in good hands, until they realized they weren't. There was movement coming from the bushes and it made the pogues stand on guard, beckoning them to come out. Soon, the figures finally revealed themsleves. More mercenaries.

"Nicely, done Piper. It seems you can still make yourself useful after all." The red-headed woman speaks up, tossing you a pouch of money that you caught with one hand effortlessly.

"Never doubt my capabilities, it's insulting." You warn, tucking the pouch into the bag strapped across your back. The british woman continues, "Y'know, Mr. Finch could use your talents again. Once we're done tying up loose ends, we're headed back to home base in Lisbon."

Rafe is livid. He knew he couldn't trust you. It couldn't be by pure coincidence that the mercenaries popped up in the middle of this oasis when you were leading. "Lisbon? You told us Finch was here-" Kiara exclaims and Rafe interrupts.

"It was all a lie, from the very beginning. Mr. Alami, the merchant from Agapenta, he was working with you, wasn't he? You knew he'd send us to you, and now you got your sad little payout from these dipshits for bringing us to them." Rafe seethes.

"I'll neither confirm nor deny that claim, love the enthusiasm though." Your attitude remains unbothered throughout the ordeal until Pope demands, "What do you want from us? We don't have the crown! Groff took it." The red head shrugs casually, sharpening her blades as she approaches the group.

"Don't you worry, Groff will get what's coming to him. For now, it's time to repay the debt that is owed. You get blood on your hands, I get blood on mine." Your eyes bulge, "Hang on, you never said you wanted to kill them." You step in and the woman pays you no mind.

"Perhaps because It's none of your concern. You've got your cut, now's a good time as ever to leave. It's about to get messy." She retracts her hand, about to plunge the blade into Pope when she's knocked out cold by a flying piece of steel.

The group looks over to you in shock, fear, and a hint of gratitude, but there's no time to gush about it when there's suddenly a brawl that breaks out between the mercenaries and the pogues.

You all hardly take them out before escaping.

"Piper, what the hell?!" John B yells and his anger is heavily agreed on in the group, you take it on the chin before offering the most sincere apology you could come up with. They're unconvinced. "I deserve that. Everything you heard back there is true. Finch's Fortress is in Lisbon. If you find him, you'll find Groff," You trail off, reaching into your bag, handing Cleo the pouch of money you'd just gotten.

"Take this. It's more than enough to get you a boat big enough to get across the atlantic and even have some leftover for food for a few days. When you arrive on the coast of Cascais, you'll need to head north in-land."

There's silence.

A long silence, nervous glances between the pogues and Rafe's eyes roll. "You guys cannot seriously be considering trusting her. She almost had us killed! Am I the only one who cares about making it back home?"

"Just shut up, Rafe!" John B silences him, and Pope speaks up. "Listen, I don't know about you guys but Piper just saved my life when she didn't have to. We've already lost someone. Going after Groff could be a suicide missison for all we know. But we all know this isn't about our safety, it's about revenge. For JJ." His speech is moving, the expressions agree.

"For JJ." They all agree.

"To Lisbon we go." Cleo chimes, and the group moves on.

End of Script*

You had just finished reading the script and you were blown away. The cast never knows what to expect whenevfer a new script is dropped in front of them.

"Wait a minute... If the pogues are going to Lisbon in the next episode then," Madison trails off and the director ties in, "So are we. Pack your bags, flights are booked for Saturday morning at 5am, please do not miss these flights, we're not opposed to writing you out!" Josh jokes and there's excited and shock all around the table.

You knew that the last season of the show had implied that the pogues would be on their way to Lisbon but it never dawned on you that it would be so soon, even though it made sense.

"You ever been to Portugal?" Drew leans in, a soft whisper in your ear tickled your skin and made the hairs on the back of your neck at attention. "Never, have you?" He thinks about it, "If a layover counts then yes, yes I have." You're not sure if the joke was funny or if it just left the mouth of an incredibly attractive man, nonetheless, it made you giggle.

Madison kicks JD from under the table, jutting her chin towards the two of you giggling in secret and he rolls his eyes. "Patience." He says it calmly, but Madison is impatient, she knows she'll reign triumphant by the end of it all.

-

It’s a Friday night—or, more accurately, the early hours of Saturday morning. The world outside your accommodations complex is still cloaked in sleep, and you should be too. But no. The responsibility of making your flight in two hours has ripped you from the warmth of your bed. Groggy but determined, you scrambled to gather your belongings, knowing you wouldn’t be back.

After a last sweep of the room, you opened the door with a flicker of confidence—only to jump at the sight of a six-foot-two figure standing in your doorway.

“Drew! Oh my god, you scared me.” Your hand flew to your chest in a theatrical gesture, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

A small smile tugged at his lips, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were actually up. Everyone else already left. There’s one driver still waiting downstairs.” His voice was smooth, annoyingly easy to listen to this early in the morning. Too easy.

“You sound oddly refreshed for 3 a.m.,” you quipped, your own voice still husky from sleep as you grabbed your suitcase.

“That’s the beauty of insomnia.” He shrugged, gesturing to his temples with a finger like it was some kind of genius life hack. “You can’t wake up tired if you never really sleep.”

The elevator dinged open, and the two of you stepped inside. The silence that settled was heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define. It hung there until you both spoke at once:

“So where are you—” “How did you—”

You broke into quiet laughter, and Drew’s mouth twitched with amusement. “You first,” he said, giving you a slight nod.

“How did you know I hadn’t already left with the others?” you asked, tilting your head curiously. For a moment, something flickered across his face—an emotion too quick to name—before a light blush dusted his cheeks. He masked it with an easy tone.

“I did some askin' around,” he replied, the answer short and almost vague. It was just enough to spark your teasing instincts.

“Ah,” you said with a smirk, “so you missed me?”

Instant regret settled within you. The elevator seemed too small, too still as Drew turned to look at you, his gaze steady and disarming. For a heartbeat, he didn’t respond, and your cheeks grew warm under his stare.

“You could say that,” he finally said, the ghost of a smirk curling the corner of his lips. His attention shifted to the elevator doors as they slid open, leaving you to wonder if you’d imagined the whole thing.

The ride to the airport was longer than expected thanks to roadwork that forced a detour. You should've been annoyed, but at some point, your head found its way to Drew’s shoulder, and your eyes fluttered shut. The fabric of his hoodie was soft against your temple, and his warmth lulled you into a half-dream state.

Drew didn’t dare move. The weight of your head against him was almost too perfect, and he fought the sudden urge to reach for your hand resting on your lap. Instead, he focused on the ticking clock in the back of his mind and the quiet hum of the car.

When you arrived, he sprang into action. “C’mon, we don’t have time to waste,” he murmured, grabbing your suitcase and his carry-on in one hand while ushering you toward the terminal with the other.

You barely had to lift a finger. Drew handled everything—tickets, baggage check, even navigating customs—with practiced efficiency, his jaw set and his movements quick. He wasn’t just organized; he was determined.

“Do you always walk as fast as a drill sergeant?” you teased as you reached the gate, breathing a little easier now.

He shot you a look, his lips twitching. “I'm not a huge fan of being late,” was all he said. But the way his eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary told you there was more to it than that.

Finally, you made it to your seats in first class. You settled across the aisle from Madelyn, who flashed you a bright smile.

“I was starting to think you two wouldn’t make it,” she teased, leaning toward you with a glint in her eye. There was an underlying subtext to her words but you were too tired to decipher it.

“Drew made sure that didn’t happen,” you replied with a soft laugh. The words were simple, but they carried a warmth you couldn’t quite suppress.

From behind your seat, Drew caught the sound of his name on your lips--and god did he love the way it sounds. He didn’t know what you’d said, but it didn’t matter. The fact that you were talking about him stirred something in his chest.

As the flight began, you glanced back once, meeting his gaze. He held it for a fraction of a moment before looking away, his expression unreadable.

And yet, for the rest of the flight, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t stop replaying the memory of the weight of your head on his shoulder—or wondering what it might feel like to hold your hand in his.

Taglist: @percysley, @lilithblackkk, @rafegf-real, @eternallovers65, @drsza, @wearemadeofstardust0, @cadhlabear, @thepopcultureaddict, @citr0us, @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account, @madi44444,

[rin-may-1103]

Turn Back the Frozen Sands of Time. pt 2.

Previous | Master Post | Next

After spending a little too long sitting on the roof and spouting facts about the sun, Danny and Damian had rushed off to breakfast.

Now, Danny was in the middle of morning lessons.

Very boring morning lessons.

Danny watched as his teacher continued to scratch at the chalkboard, his messy writing making it difficult to even read what was being added.

Zoning out, but pretending to be paying attention (a skill danny's mastered both in the past and future), Danny started writing in his notebook.

Alright, who(alive) does he know would be powerful enough to send Danny back in time and into his old body? And who would have the motive to do it?

let's see here;

It can't be anyone who knew Fenton, because as much as Danny runs his mouth, he's still just an 'ordinary' teenage boy. Vlad would technically count, but he's currently, or well, was stuck in the thermos for the time being. So it wasn't him, and the chances he had caused this indirectly were very slim. The man wouldn't have trusted another powerful ghost to do his evil bidding for him. That just wasn't his style.

So, not Fenton, but al Ghul then.

Who had known Danyal Al Ghul?

Well, there was grandfather, but he had been the one to order Danny's first death. So the likelihood that he had sent Danny's soul back in time was unlikely. And why would he? he had chosen Damian as his heir, not Danny. So if anything, he'd have brought Damian back in time. And since Damian hasn't acted any differently, well, besides the sudden want to hang out with Danny outside of training and lessons(which might not be so sudden if Danny's just been missing the signals the whole time), that wasn't what happened.

And if it did, then why bring Danny back too?

It didn't make sense.

So not grandfather.

Mother could possibly know someone, but she wouldn't have done this for Danny, let alone after eight years of thinking him dead. No, she'd only bring him back if she was forced to. And he likely would have been waking up in the lazarous waters, not his bedroom, and definitely not in his nine-year-old body.

So, then a league enemy?

What enemy was powerful enough to send a soul (who's believed to have been dead for eight years at this point) back in time without a warning?

They didn't have any.

There was no current enemy of the league that could have done this.

There was a select few in the league that knew of his existence, let alone an enemy that knew.

So, not Fenton, or al Ghul.

And father never knew of him.

so just who the hell-

A blade sailed through the air, aimed right at his head. Acting on pure instinct, Danny reached up and caught it, twisted it around his fingers, and sent it flying back at his teacher, all while finishing the last sentence in his notebook.

Glancing up, he was met with a calculating look.

"It seems you've been hiding your potential," his teacher drawled, his brow lifted as he pulled the knife out of the chalkboard.

Right, nine-year-old Danny wouldn't have done that. (he could have, but the closer Danny had gotten to his first death, the more he had become aware of how essential it was to downplay his skills. Past him had noticed the attention focused on his twin, had noticed how they brushed him off and scorned him. They treated him like he was a low-level recruit, someone who could get replaced with a snap of a blade. Being underestimated was what kept him safe.)

Past him hid his talents, hoping that if he trained himself enough, he'd be prepared for when they finally wanted to get rid of him. (and it would have worked, except, Damian had always been Danny's weak point. Grandfather knew Danny wouldn't have the heart to kill his brother, so, in the end, hiding had been pointless.)

welp, time to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss his way out of this one.

"Hide my potential?" Danny leaned back, his brow lifted like he'd just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world, "Sir, even the new recruit down the hall, Jeremy Asghar, could defend himself from a messy attack such as that."

And it had been messy, his teacher hadn't even tried to hide his movement, had chosen a blunt knife, and had grunted as he turned to hurl the blade at him. (danny's watched the new recruits get trained, even the worst of them would have seen the attack coming)

"Perhaps," his teacher agreed, watching him for a moment before glancing down at his notebook. Danny didn't try to hide it, even if he desperately wanted to. It would just make him look suspicious. And besides, it's not like he'd been writing in a language the man could read.

"What language is that?" the man asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glanced at Danny, then back down at the notebook, quickly snatching it off the table.

Danny frowned at the man, crossing his arms in obvious annoyance. Before he could respond, the door slammed open, making both of them turn to face the intruder.

It was his mother.

"Mother?" Danny asked, dropping his arms and staring up at the women with a confused head tilt. A shadow moved behind her, drawing danny's eyes. It was Damian, scowling at the halls around them.

"Danyal," mother spoke, the slightest hint of relief in her voice. Why was she relieved? What was going on? She shouldn't be here, at least not for another three days.

Had the five minutes it'd taken him to re-adjust to the time travel really caused this much damage???

"Master," his teacher greeted, hesitantly studying her and Damian standing guard behind her. "We are currently in the middle of a lesson, may I ask as to the reason for this disturbance?"

Mother studied the man for a moment before her eyes landed on the notebook. "Who wrote this?" she asked, snatching the book from the man's hands and flipping the pages to try and read it more clearly.

When the man didn't answer, she lifted her head and studied him, then turned back to Danny.

"Danyal," she started, studying him intently, "did you write this?"

Danny blinked, then glanced down at the pages. He had been writing in ghost speak; no living person, not even liminals, knew how to speak and read it. It was the language of the dead, the core-beings. You needed a core to understand it. So why was she looking at it like she knew it? Like she's seen it before?

"Yes?" he answered, looking back up to study her reaction.

"Where did you learn it?" she asked, slowly closing the notebook and clutching it like it would disappear if she didn't.

a memory of him sneaking into the deep caverns under the fortress, into the tunnels only grandfather and his select few followers were allowed. The cave housing the lazarous waters was covered in ghost speak, his mortal memories were unable to read and understand them. But present him could.

And oh, now he understood. She didn't know what it said, but she knew there was only one place where he could have learned. a place he wasn't allowed in, and if he was caught, he could be killed for entering.

"It's in the cave," Danny answered, tilting his head like he was confused and guilty (ancients, he hoped she wouldn't look too deep into it.) Here's to hoping his acting had improved.

"I've been trying to decipher them," Danny glanced at his teacher nervously, then back at his mother, "I haven't managed to yet." he looked down in disappointment, like he was ashamed to admit this failure.

His mother crouched down, placed his notebook on his desk, and reached out to cup his face. Her hands were trembling, but for what reason, Danny couldn't tell.

She lifted his head, making him look up at her, "Habibi, you know you're not allowed in the caves."

Danny glanced to the side nervously, both out of a need to check his surroundings and to keep up his act. " I know," he admitted, watching as Damian closed the door silently and gripped his katana tightly. That wasn't good. Why was he about to pull his weapon?

"But grandfather left his own research on his desk and I got curious," he admitted, which was true, past him had been going down into the caves on and off for a while, trying to translate the mysterious symbols. (It was partially in hopes that he could prove his worth, and partially because he really was curious.) He'd never gotten caught.

Man, she was going to know he was better at sneaking around than he pretended to be.

Her hands tightened ever so slightly, making him glance back at her. Her face was set in a neutral frown, but her eyes gave her away, and she was horrified.

"Mother?' Danny asked, studying her more intently than before. Her usually perfect hair was wind-swept, like she had rushed here as soon as she could. Her kameez wasn't wrinkled, but it wasn't perfectly kept. There was dirt on the bottom of her salwar, making it obvious she hadn't taken the time to tread carefully or wrap them in fabric like she'd taught them.

"Damian," mother demanded, not looking away from Danny. In a flash Damian pulled his katana and slit the man's throat. Danny forced himself not to flinch, not to react. Past him wouldn't have been shocked at the death; he would have been confused by his family's actions.

(Presently, he was also confused. What the hell was going on??? And killing the man wasn't that strange, but he hadn't done anything yet? But then again, Danny had just admitted to going down to the caves and trying to translate the language; anyone who even glimpses something from the cave usually gets killed. So, ok, maybe that was danny's fault, whoops. rest in infinity, you poor, poor man.)

"Mother?" Danny repeated, watching as his teacher's body dropped to the floor, his blood leaking out and forming a puddle on the stone floor. (It was strange to see so much blood when it wasn't his own.)

"Pack up for today, Danyal," mother ordered, finally stepping back and standing up. She continued to watch him for a moment before forcing herself to look away. "We have a meeting with Father."

Grabbing his notebook, Danny quickly stacked his things and put them away.

Once he was done, Danny stood to attention and waited for his mother's next orders.

"Follow me," she demanded, pushing the door open and walking out.

Damian stood next to Danny, not making a noise as the two of them made their way out of the room.

"Clean this up," mother commanded one of her spies, not glancing back as she continued down the hall.

Glancing to his side, Danny watched as Damian put his katana away, his knuckles turning white before finally letting it go and resting his hands behind his back.

Just what in the world was going on here?

Five minutes shouldn't have messed up the timeline this much; there's no way it was Danny's fault.

So, whose was it?

And what did they change?

Next