#discard->impulsive draw feels right for breeze

[dravidious]

You're cool

I made Breeze!

[amani-outrider]

pt2 of Adrestes and the Maw Walker Hanging Out + vibing 

“I must ask…” Adrestes breaks the silence between them. 

They’re in Bastion, of course, once again relaxing. ‘Hanging out,’ but this time in a different spot- in the shade of a tree by one of the glittering ponds, far from the more bustling areas of Bastion.

The Maw Walker is splayed out on the grass the more bulky, uncomfortable pieces of their armor discarded to rest against the tree trunk, their eyes closed but one opens to look at him.

The words stumble where they’re forming in his throat, somehow their attention gives him pause. They’re friends; he’s comfortable in saying that now, but he wonders if the question is too personal to ask like this. 

But he is curious. He must know.

He looks away from them, towards the flittering silhouettes of young ascended practicing their flying in the distance. 

“Why did you side with the venthyr?” 

He hears them shift next to him, the faint rustle of the grass as they adjust. One of the Ascended starts the obstacle course anew, obviously fresh to their wings, their movements awkward and unsure.

The Maw Walker is silent and Adrestes wonders briefly if he’d phrased the question poorly. He didn’t mean to imply there was any ‘siding’ to be done, as if their choice had slighted the other covenants in some way. And maybe at first it had felt that way, but the anima flowing anew in their realms was proof enough that they were working for the betterment of them all, and the Kyrian had managed to rebuild the destroyed Crest of Ascension eventually. 

“I don’t think there was any one reason,” they say finally. 

A tension eases from Adrestes’ shoulders that he didn’t realize he’d been keeping. He turns his head slightly to catch a glance at them.

Their eyes are open, staring at the leaves of the tree that flutter in an unfelt breeze, opalescent purple melting into pale gold at the tips. 

They shrug.

“I guess I just clicked with them.”

The answer hangs in the air like the Ascended in the distance hovers, more confident with their wings than before.

“There must have been something,” he presses lightly. “You are a hero in your mortal world are you not? You would have fit in well in Bastion.” He imagines them in crisp whites, blues, and golds, traditional Bastion garb- cannot help the indulgent thought of them with wings like his. Indulgent, yes, but it ultimately rings hollow and the blues shift back to the vibrant reds, the rest tarnishing to smoky black. 

They laugh, something light and pure that resonates within him like the ring of a vesper.

“I think all of the covenants would say the same thing honestly,” they say as they sit up. “But…” their smile fades, their eyes growing distant as they stare at the water in front of them. Snapjaws swim lazily under the glittering surface, their noses breaking the still waters every now and then for breath sending ripples cascading outward. “I wouldn’t consider myself a hero. Done some heroic things yeah, maybe, but I’ve done just as much bad, too.” A shadow passes over their features. “Awful things that I regret.”  

They lapse into silence. Adrestes has only heard about what they’ve done through rumor- Revendreth’s prince never wasting a chance to gush about their accomplishments- or their own passing comments. All of their deeds thus far in the Shadowlands would seem selfless enough to be chosen for Bastion, but that hadn’t been their choice. And he knows nothing of what might haunt them.

The shadow fades from their face, their eyes focusing more on the present again.

“I guess I just liked the idea of being able to face and overcome that without forgetting.” 

He nods, understanding as much as he’s able to. He was never mortal- or if he was the memories had faded long long ago- and he’d never worked closely with the mortal souls like other Kyrian, but he knew that the memories were the hardest part of the Path for many. They clung to their past the more it faded away and he could not fault them for it.

"Besides, if I'd joined the Kyrian would we be able to spend time together like this?"

No, his duty within the kyrian would demand he act as their superior in rank no matter what. He would never have known the hospitality of the Venthyr nor the joy of their friendship. The thought of that makes his chest ache.

"You made the right choice then," Adrestes says. 

"I think so, too," they're smiling, their face bright and shining despite the darkness that had just lingered there- that still lingers within. 

He reaches out suddenly without thinking, placing his hand gently on theirs. They tense- shoulders going rigid for just a moment before relaxing. Adrestes stares at his hand, the vibrant blue contrasting against their skin, surprised by his own impulsive action.

���I…” He’s unsure of what he even wants to say. The unease that’s settled in his gut is unfamiliar. “I am sorry.” He says finally.

They look at him confused, but not pulling away.

He bows his head.

“I did not mean to unearth bad memories. Nor did I intend to doubt your choice.” 

They shift their hand under his- to pull away, he thinks at first, but instead they move so their hands slot together more surely, palm-to-palm. 

“It’s okay,” they say and squeeze his hand. Comforting, reassuring. “There’s no need to apologize.” 

Their thumb caresses idly over the back of his hand, drawing his attention again. Such gestures… were not typical of the Kyrian, especially the Ascended and unheard of with the Polemarches. 

It’s not unpleasant.

Something inside him gives way, like a wall crumbling against the crash of a wave. A feeling; warmth blossoming, unfurling like the petals of rising glory.

The sensation strikes him like a blow to the stomach, a soft noise escaping his throat in surprise.

They glance at him, their thumb stilling its motions.

“Are you okay?”

The answer should be no. It should be. Because he can recognize plainly that these are emotions he should not be feeling. He should take himself to be cleansed, to meditate in solitude to remind himself of his duty to Bastion, to the Archon and rebuild the wall inside of him. 

But he finds he doesn’t want to.

“Yes,” he says, breathing out slowly to steady himself. “I am fine.”

They say nothing, but there is another faint squeeze of his hand.

More than fine, he thinks.

[yeojaa]

❪  TO THE MOON AND BACK!  ❫

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  kth x (named) f!reader.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  

genre +  rating.  non-idol!au.  romance (fluff), smut, some angst.  general.

warnings / tags.  none, tbh.  a lot of soft soft softness in this chapter.

count.  4.1k

chapter 10.

You wake in bits and pieces, with half-composed thoughts that drift in and out of focus.  Dreams that you can’t quite remember now exist somewhere in the back of your mind, playing like a breeze.  There’s sleep crusting your eyes, bleary and heavy-lidded from the nap that’d seamlessly extended itself into a fourteen hour compulsion. 

Tracking a hand across your face - you can feel the lines left behind by linen, how they imprint against your cheek in the same way sunlight does from your bedroom window - you note that his side of the bed is empty.  His side because he’s claimed it as such, nearly two months in. 

The shower is running.  You can hear it through the thin walls of your apartment.  He’s also just dropped something, because the resounding bang! is as loud as fireworks on New Year’s.

Lethargic, you drag yourself from your sheets, cursing your obligations all the way.  So what if you’d agreed to them before?  It was now and you were somehow still tired.

The effort you exert in making the bed is haphazard at best.  You’re even less enthused when you throw clothes on - his shirt, discarded across the back of your desk chair - and a comfortable thong that cuts high across your hips.

“Don’t use up all of the hot water!”  You call, not very loudly at all, toes wiggling their way into slippers on your journey out of your room.  

Taehyung doesn’t answer but you know he’s heard you.

Down the hallway and into the kitchen, you busy yourself with coffee, single ceramic mug poised and ready the moment the kettle whistles.  You consider, briefly, making another, before remembering that unlike you, your boyfriend has terrible, godawful taste.  He dislikes coffee as much as you hate deadlines - which is to say very much.

You rest against the countertop as the water comes to a boil within the pretty blue kettle you’d received as a gift from your mother when you’d started university.  Marginally wider eyes take in the sun that filters into your apartment, how it bounces off your coffee table and the assortment of picture frames littering the space.  

There’s one of you and your parents.  Your sister had taken it, snapping the image the moment you sneezed.  It was meant to be a photo you’d be embarrassed by but instead it sits front and centre like some deranged centrepiece. 

There’s another of a group of people hanging all over each other.  Beneath someone’s elbow is your face painted with streaks of wayward paint;  your sister has an unimpressed Upo held high above her head.  

There’s just a silhouette - broad-shouldered and dressed in all black with a mushroom-head of fluffy black strands - inspecting a room of lights.  It could be anyone but you know it’s Jungkook.  You try not to linger on it too long, swivelling your stare to the next photo.

It’s newer, in Polaroid-form.  Your face next to Taehyung’s stares back at you from the front of your refrigerator, a lopsided heart and your names scrawled beneath it in his neat Hangul. 

“What’re you looking at?”  You hear him before you see him, turning towards the sound of his voice as he tugs his shirt mostly into place, pristine white cotton slinking against his body and sticking where moisture settles.  

His hair is still wet, curling at the ends and dripping onto the collar.  It spreads to your own shirt when he envelopes you easily, all but hiding behind your curtain of dark hair.  Warmth radiates off him - his body heat and that of the shower’s - as he presses into your back, fitting you against his chest.  It doesn’t even seem like that much of a deliberate motion as an impulsive, subconscious one.  

He just wants you closer - always does.

“Stop!”  You’re grumbling but you’re not very bothered;  you like him too much to be anywhere but in his arms.  Still, you push however feebly at his wrists, relaxing into his touch with the same breath.  

“Stop what?”  He hums in response, all bared teeth and that stupidly charming smile of his.  It pulls fine lines by his eyes and wanes them into crescents, mouth stretching into that peculiar shape that’s so very him.  

You glower at him, though the expression falls flat.  It’s still a little sleepy, caffeine not quite sparking the animosity it requires.  “You’re all wet!” 

He ignores that and turns toward the fridge, prying open the white door to peer inside curiously.  He speaks into it,  to the bag of grapes and half-empty tub of ssamjang.  “The water’s still warm - as promised.”  It hadn’t been a promise, but he’d heard it and they were mostly the same thing.

When he turns back toward you - surprisingly not empty-handed - he flashes you that playful smile you so adore.  It pulls his mouth once more into that boxy shape, a real-life present you very much want to unwrap.

So focused on it, you don’t realize he’s speaking again, lips curling around syllables that sit just past your comprehension.  “What?”

“When was the last time it wasn’t?”  Taehyung never holds it against you when he has to repeat himself.  He never minds, accepting it as another second spent together.  You only know because you’d asked him once, a few days ago, when you’d made him repeat himself for the fourth time and he’d been just as patient as with the first.

You aren’t sure how he does it.  He insists it comes with growing up with younger siblings.

“Two nights ago, before you went to bed.”  You’re solemn, chin just a touch defiant and hands crossed over your chest.  It’s meant to be intimidating but by the pull of his mouth - just enough to give away his amusement - you think it’s probably quite weak. 

“Oh, really?”  It comes in an earnest drawl, as if he’s really trying to remember.

“You thought I wasn’t going to shower but I did and it was awful.”  As if to drive your point home, you wobble your shoulders like a penguin would, shimmying on the spot.

“But…”  There’s a light in his eyes - a mischief that illuminates the darkness of his irises.  “Didn’t you say you weren’t going to shower?”  He punctuates the question with a firm bite into the peach he’s pulled from the crisper drawer.  It crunches between his teeth loudly, the smug glint in his stare as hard as the flesh he tears into.

Mouth of your own purses and pulls, drawn into a straight line.  You can feel the hard edge of the counter behind you but you shift regardless, shrugging into your cup of partially-cooled caffeine.  Taehyung adjusts with you like he’s attuned to you - caught in your gravitational pull.  When you tuck your elbow more closely to your side, he crowds there;  when you slip under his arm, he revolves on his heel and slides his palm comfortably over your waist.  Anywhere you go, he follows.

“I’m right,”  he sing-songs, deeply pleased.  He’s so handsome like this - full of brightness to the point it radiates out of him, warming you all the way through to your toes.

“Sure,”  you return, coolly, with a roll of your eyes that he’s grown used to over the few months.  He knows you don’t mean it so he laughs, low and slow, directly at you.  The sound settles into your bones, digging into your ears in the most pleasant way. 

When he presses forward, deposits a sweet kiss to your cheek, you can’t deny the flutter in your chest.  It beats to a melody he orchestrates with nimble hands - music to his ears.  He can’t help being a little proud of that.  He wants to draw it out further and further, until your voice joins the symphony of sound.  But he can’t, because you have plans and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited and a little preoccupied with that. 

“Go take that shower.  We’re leaving in an hour.”

You’ve never loved children - which is not to say you hate them, but your maternal instinct has never guided you.  You don’t squeal with joy when you see a newborn and you definitely don’t rush to hold babies, all too put off by their fragile nature to trust your own strength - or clumsiness. 

But here with him?  You think Taehyung - and his adorable siblings - might just change your mind.

Under cover of heavy boughs with a pretty tartan blanket laid beneath you, you watch the scene before you unfold like something from a movie, unravelling the knot in your chest as it does.  

Jong Gyu’s laugh slips into the mid-afternoon sky, cresting high above the oak branches as it rings and rings.  He’s holding tight to the chains he’s swinging from, legs pumping as hard as they can in his neat denim overalls.  No threat of falling deters him as he demands to go higher, elated when his brother complies and pushes just a little harder.  He trusts Taehyung - and his own grubby five year old grip - without question as he sweeps higher, feet barely brushing the ground on the next swing forward.  There’s nothing to rob him of his joy as it vibrates through his entire tiny body.

“Higher, higher!”  His request comes half-formed and stolen by delight.  Taehyung’s own joy bonds seamlessly with it, throwing it into deeper relief as he does exactly as asked.

You don’t bother to fight back the smile that spreads, stretching from ear to ear at the sight.  You don’t even mind the warm body curled in your lap, small fingers threaded around your knee as if it was a blanket and not the knobbly, definitely-not-comfortable bone it is.  Fingers of your own pass through the little girl’s hair, combing through it like you might’ve liked when you were her age.

By the stillness, you think she might have fallen asleep.  You wouldn’t be surprised - it’s been hours since you’d been at the park and she’d expended more energy in the last half hour than you did in a week.  

“Unnie,”  she mumbles it so quietly, mouth warm against the fluttery flowy cotton of your trousers, that you almost miss it.  

“What is it?”  You don’t expect her to sit up so you round your shoulders, listening intently.

Her answer surprises you:  “Tae-oppa’s happy.”  She says it so matter of factly, finding strength somewhere you can’t see.  She grips your knee barely tighter, like she’s pressing the statement into your skin, impressing the meaning with each tiny digit. 

When the silence pulls a touch too long, you realize she’s waiting patiently for an answer.  You’re not sure what you can say but you try nonetheless.

“I hope so.”  

“I know he is.”  The middle child speaks with such certainty.  She reassures you like it’s an undeniable truth, far too firm for a girl of only nine.  Then she turns to you and you see that same confidence in her smile and how it erupts like lava, coating her popsicle stained lips and teeth and tongue.  Somehow, despite the nearly two decades that separates them, she looks remarkably like Taehyung.  

Maybe it’s the way she smiles or how her dark hair sweeps over her eyes - thickly lashed and expressive.

“You make him happy, unnie.”

You stay just as you are, smile of your own forming in slow, measured ticks of your mouth.  There must not be anything better than the belief of a child, you think - a decidedly not very-you thought.  It’s undeniable, filling you with pride.  “He makes me happy, too.”  

“What about me?”  Eunjin is completely serious, staring up at you imploringly.  It doesn’t matter that this is the first time you’ve met her or that she hardly knows you.  You’re already in her good graces, cemented there by the soft braid you’d twisted into her hair earlier and the last piece of cheese kimbap you'd selflessly given up.

“You also make me happy.”

The girl sits taller as if taking great pride in this concession.  She doesn’t look in the direction of her siblings - both still erupting with laughter over by the playground set - but rather, tilts her head adorably.  It reminds you of Taehyung yet again, earnest and sweet and demanding of affection.  “And Jong Gyu?”  

“Him, too,”  you reassure.  She seems satisfied with this, nodding solemnly to herself before she all but throws herself back into your lap in only a couple of motions.  You return to comfortable silence easily.

You think you might like children more if they were all like this.

“Getting tired?”  It’s Taehyung with Jong Gyu on his shoulders, the young boy’s fingers fisted tightly - too tightly, by the way your boyfriend occasionally winces - in his unkempt hair.  He’s approaching in long strides, closing the distance between you before you have a chance to answer.

“I’m fine.”  You share a look, glancing at the small body coiled around your legs.  “But I can’t speak for all of us.”

It must be her not-spider-sense that compels the girl to speak, words once against lost to the fabric she’s clutching.  “‘m not tired.”  No one believes her  - she’s drawling just like her older brother does when he’s about to fall asleep.  It’s adorable. 

Taehyung laughs and the sound curls from his lips like smoke, the joy in his eyes as bright as the rays that shine warm and glorious above the canopy of leaves.  He shifts the boy on his shoulders, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of his chubby cheeks from his periphery.  It’s altogether useless, because he’s nearly as tired as his sister, slumped against the back of Taehyung’s head like a ragdoll. 

“Let’s head home then.”  He speaks softly for their sake, more than fine with the energy - or lack thereof - that stills their bodies.  It’s far easier to bring them back to his parents like this, worn out and sun-warmed.  It means not being blamed when they erupt with hyper energy later - a common occurrence when it came to babysitting.

Communication passes silently between you as he lifts Jong Gyu from his shoulders, depositing the frame that’s all loose limbs and baby soft skin into your lap.  The little boy heaves a little noise and nestles his face into the shape of your waist, his sneakered feet just barely missing his sister’s head.

You pass Taehyung bits and pieces from your day - stackable containers and used utensils, the worn tiger plush that the youngest Kim carries around with him - and he stores them neatly away, stretching the confines of his damier canvas keepall.

Of course Kim Taehyung would use a three thousand dollar luxury tote as a picnic bag. 

“Ready to go?”  He crouches at your side, bag at his feet.  You move in practiced synchrony, his lips pressing a sweet kiss to the crown of your head - to the half-hearted braid you’d twined to match Eunjin’s from earlier - as you unfurl Jong Gyu’s fists from the hem of your shirt.  He scopes the little boy into his arms, cradling him against his chest like he’s done so many times before.  

When he rises, bag in his free hand, he looks almost like he regrets his decision.  His fingers itch for yours.  The desire increases tenfold when you shake his sleeping sister awake, rousing her with quiet apologies and that smile that makes his heart clench.

He knows now isn’t the time, but seeing you fit so perfectly with his imperfect family feels a lot like a miracle.  Like you were made for him, for them - to fill in the spaces he’d long since moved on from. 

Maybe it’s too much for a Sunday afternoon just months in the making, but he likes it anyway.

Jungkook’s not quite sure whether it’s delight or surprise he feels when your Battletag pops up on the bottom left-hand corner of his screen in the middle of his comp game.  He thinks it must be the latter - because this has never been your game as much as it’s been his.  

You’d indulged him when he’d asked you to download it years ago, muttering under your breath about how all boys wanted the same thing (namely, video games).  

How fitting that it was bringing you together again.

Or would be, if he’d stop staring at his screen like a kid dumbfounded by a strange new animal at the zoo.

His fingers itch with an energy he can’t place, thumb drifting over and over his space bar.  He hardly even realizes his hero is bouncing up and down on the screen - Little Red Riding Hood outfit a crimson beacon - until one of his teammates calls him on it, snarky and more than a bit disbelieving.

“Ashe - what the hell are you doing?”  

Dazed and still a little confused, he flinches and immediately stops his assault on the poor key, gaze swivelling back to his screen as a whole.  Luckily, they’re on their last hold on Ilios and he’s got B.O.B at the ready because he’s finding it hard to otherwise focus on the game, his attention drifting back to your presence in the online world.  

“Can you BOB now?  Ball’s incoming.”  Not the asshole of an Orisa from earlier.  It’s your Ana, soft and decidedly feminine.  There must be some sort of irony there.

He presses Q immediately, launching the omnic ally across the point to where the opposing team will surely enter from.  As if right on cue, their poor Lucio is launched into the air and riddled with bullets, his death appearing in the kill feed moments later.  Wrecking Ball follows seconds later, seemingly about to throw the game into overtime as he contests - only to be slept right outside of the boundary.  

There’s a collective congratulation and patting of backs as VICTORY presents itself.  

“Good job, boys.”  It’s your Ana again, but it isn’t the voice he wants to hear.  He doesn’t say it back before he leaves the game.

When he clicks through to his friends list, he sees you in competitive queue, which means he either has ten minutes or none at all.  He takes the plunge with shaking fingers, his message to you riddled with spelling mistakes he rues.

JKMKNAE says:  look who it is

You don’t immediately respond and the wait feels like eons, his worry growing as his whisper disappears within the global chat.  Great.  You were ignoring him.

He’s halfway to gnawing his bottom lip into a mess when he notices you’ve left queue, sitting in menus now just like he is.  Maybe that’s a good sign?  He hates the bubble of hope that forms in his chest.  

CHOCHOTRAIN says:  who is it?

The breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding comes in a rush and his entire body sags with relief.  He’s typing before he can think better of it - before the logical side of his brain can override the sprinting of his heart.

JKMAKNAE says:  idk JKMAKNAE says:  someone i wanna duo with JKMAKNAE says:  you down?

You answer in the form of an invitation to your group;  he accepts the moment he receives it.

CHOCHOTRAIN says:  get on discord

Apprehension fills him with bright light, sparks going off beneath his skin.  He can see the mild tremor in his hands - likely from all the caffeine he’d had this morning, but also possibly due to the fact that he’s been too lazy to make any sort of proper meal all day - and he huffs out a small sound of amusement.  

For all of the reasons it might be there, he knows one of them is you.  At least, a little bit. 

You make him so nervous. 

“You’re back on the Overwatch grind?”  He’s speaking the moment he accepts your call, his voice crackling over the connection with much more confidence than he feels.  It’s silly, given your history - but then again, it’s because of your history that he’s like this. 

“Sort of,”  you answer in a distracted way that makes his mind wander.  Then you’re sucking down a smoothie and the sound is bouncing around in his ears, answering his question for him.

“Blueberry banana?”  It’s your favourite.  

“Strawberry banana, actually.”  You sound almost like you’re pouting.  He can imagine the expression - the rounding of your mouth, the way your brows gather together.  “I ate all the blueberries and forgot.”

It’s so very you that Jungkook can’t help snickering.  “How do you forget you ate something?”  He asks, but he knows the answer.  He’d seen you eat a croissant once and then ask where it’d gone, completely oblivious to the fact that your plate was covered in crumbs from said baked good.

“It happens, okay!”  He’s glad you’re laughing along with him.  It feels good, like how things used to be.  

“Sure, sure.”  

“I should kick you from this group right now.”  He knows you won’t.  At least, he thinks you won’t.  He doesn’t really know you as well as he used to, like you’re standing behind a door that’s stuck.  

“You won’t,”  he hums, equal parts hopeful and reassured.

You relent with a sigh and another one of your laughs, just dramatic enough to convey that this is okay.  “I won’t.”

Silence returns, the quiet only broken by the sound of your straw rattling in your cup.  It’s comfortable, somehow, even if he’s more than a little amazed by it.  It sits like a blanket in his lap, thrown over his legs to anchor him to the here and now.  It’s warm, full of the feeling of you.  

“How are things?”  He breaks first because he always does when it comes to you.  

“Really good.”  

It’s something he’s always liked about you - your transparency in most things. You found no comfort in playing it cool, in acting aloof.  When someone asked you how you were, you’d tell them - the good, the bad, and the ugly.  When you were passionate, it practically bled from your pores, spilling out of you in unrelenting rays of colour.

“Yoongi and Joon have been teaching me so much.”  You laugh and it inches just over the line of derision, softened by awe and gratitude.  “Like, I thought I knew what I was doing but god, I was so wrong!”  

You don’t mind, though;  your laugh tells him as much.  

“I keep thinking I’ve gotten over the learning curve and then—”  By the way you’re talking, he’s imagining you’re using your hands, waving them around your face in that weird wiggly motion you tend to do when you’re flustered.  “—Boom!”  It rockets out of your mouth and he winces.  “Six new things to learn.”

“But you’re happy?”  He doesn’t need an answer.  Of course you are.  This is what you’d talked about for years, day in and day out.  

“The happiest I’ve been in a long time.”  

He tries not to think about the double meaning and all the things you don’t say that sit just below the surface, threatening to tear him to pieces if he isn’t too careful.  Because Jungkook knows it’s more than just music that lives in your heart now.  It’s someone - and it isn’t him.

“You deserve it.”  It sticks in his throat a little, gumdrops and candy formed from all your sweetness.  He means it, though.  

“That means a lot.”  

You’re quiet for longer than he expects then.  Your hero - Ana in the coveted Bastet skin - makes the jump across the back of Hanamura’s second and first point.  Maybe you’re concentrating?  He’s seen you miss the leap a handful of times, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Are you happy?”  You ask almost as if you’re afraid of the answer.  

Four critical hits meet their marks before he speaks, careful and measured.  “I am.”  He isn’t lying.  Things have been fine - good, even - with contract work rolling in and his clients satisfied.  He’d found his inspiration again after losing it almost a year ago. 

“You deserve it, you know.  Happiness.”  

It’s a reminder he’s heard from you more than a handful of times.  Mumbled into his shoulder when he was stir crazy and frustrated;  pressed into the palm of his hand in the form of your touch when he was waiting for a call back;  scribbled on a sticky note left on his fridge when the layers wouldn’t sit right.  As if you worried he’d forget if you didn’t constantly say it.  

“I know.”  He does know, truly.  He’s a good guy with a good heart.  

But that doesn’t always mean he gets that he wants, even if he deserves it.  He’d had to learn that the hard way with you.

notes.  enjoy all of this softness because it's going to get really messy.  :l  only three (maybe four?) chapters left!  ty for sticking with me.  💜

[iwritethat]

Jason Todd: Should’ve - Part 3

Request: Are you planning on writing a part 3?

A/N: This series went further than I thought and I’m not even finished yet...

>>>>——————————>

~ Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~

[Unknown: (Y/n) please answer me, you need to talk to someone.]

[Unknown: It's gonna be fine, you've gotten through worse. I'm the prime example so I know you're strong enough, you always were.]

[Unknown: I don't expect an answer, but a simple 'I'm alive.' would do.]

Regardless of the ID displayed, you knew it was Jason and how he'd heard about your current state eluded you but you suspected Roy had mentioned something. Your brother figure still updated the rebel on your antics whenever Jason asked it of him despite your adamant protest, which was coincidently as frequently as Roy was in contact with him.

Of course you ignored it, the sole reason your phone hadn't been discarded or tossed across the room was because it was your saving grace as well as your constant annoyance. 1 message was all you wanted, other correspondents be damned. Kyle had gone MIA on one of his Lantern Corp missions and as the month dragged on each day heightened your vulnerable state. You knew your friend was due back weeks ago, and your closest relations knew it was tearing you apart but you'd kept yourself busy throughout that time - at least until it became a possibility that he was deceased, killed in the line of duty.

That was when you broke.

Almost as badly as when Jason left.

Almost.

Slinging your archery kit over your shoulder, you opened your apartment door and stepped over the threshold before your gaze followed the heavy leather boots up to meet surprised vibrant irises. Instantly you furrowed your brows out of old frustrations, it had become a habit now, an instinctive response to his name and his presence.

"I was gonna knock..." Although your coldness didn't phase him, instead he internally chastised himself for taking so long to build up the courage to do so - embarrassed that you'd caught him before he had the opportunity to act on his thoughts but you'd always made him nervous when expressing concern - simply because he usually doesn't to someone he has feelings for.

"What are you doing here?" He winced at the venom in your beautiful voice that still brought a sense of security to this dangerous world of his.

"You didn't answer, so I decided to get one from you."

"I'm alive as you can see. You got your answer."

"I know you and Kyle -"

"You don't know anything. Just go!"

"I know that you'd do anything for the people you care about and the fact Rayner is off world means it's killing you that you can't help him! I know that you're upset he could be dead so I'm here to be an outlet for you or something!"

"Take my feelings out? On you?! You're kidding me right, I'd kill you for everything you did!"

"As long as you'd be better for it, I'd let you..."

You turned around and slammed the door behind you, Jason completely ruining your motivation to train. He'd confused you just as he always did, why would he show up now? You remained on hateful terms and he knew you resented him yet in your moment of grief he displays consideration. Where was that 8 months ago?!

"C'mon (Y/n) just let me in. You've gotta talk to someone about this." His tone was softer, the floorboards outside of your door creaking with each step toward your barrier until he was right outside.

You slowly slid down to the doormat, head against the oakwood as a magnitude of thoughts ravaged your mind but one impulse remained bitterly prominent.

"Just leave me alone Jason." You whispered, knowing that he remained outside of the door despite the silence. "It's what you do best after all."

You'd given it about 15 minutes after your cruel words, thinking things over and assuming he’d left before you stepped out of your apartment - an unexpected groan echoed from your hardwood floor, the male wincing as he hit it the moment you opened the door since he was leaning against it. Though surprised that Jason had waited regardless of your standoffish attitude, you simply stepped over his body with a roll of your eyes.

"If you're still available I'll take you up on that idea of yours."

And so you did, you went up to the roof of your apartment complex using the owners key you'd copied as soon as you'd moved in as Jason silently followed. You dumped your kit by the exit as the cool breeze danced across your skin and you circled the area to face an opposing Jason who wasn't quite expecting you to go through with his plan.

"We're really doing this?" He seemed nervous, running a hand through his hair as he gave you a concerned glance.

"Don't look at me like that, this is what you wanted isn't it?"

It was merely sparring to begin with, your movements becoming stronger as your anger grew and your emotions began to reveal themselves from the dark abyss you'd forced them into. They'd plagued your mind bringing memories with them, your movement dying down in their ferocity to the point where Jason effortlessly caught your fist in his palm and allowed your other to hit his chest. It was then that he noticed the tears in your eyes, threatening your pride as they slipped from your lashes and the hand he captured intertwined it's fingers with his own causing his heart to skip a beat.

Jason hated the undeniable hold you still held over him, it seemed unbreakable - he'd thought it'd fade over time but the night he saw you everything came flooding back, he fell all over again even though all you did was push him away. Here you were, this time consumed by loss and tired of fighting, you were melting into him for comfort and he knew he should've pushed you away, should've left you again like he'd done so reluctantly beforehand.

Yet despite his mind screaming for such a thing, his body and heartstrings were wrapped around your little finger, he'd already embraced your broken form and taken in your intoxicating scent as you tightly returned the affection, desperately holding in sobs.

"I miss him Jay." Your fingers clenched the back of his jacket as he felt empty at your words, a sense of loss almost because they were about Kyle Rayner. Not Jason. He tried to cover it but his tone was soft and bathed in regret.

"I know..."

"It hurts, it really hurts and I don't know what to do anymore."

You sobbed harder and the both of you remained for what seemed like hours until you finally pulled away with a quick mutter of 'I'm fine now.' and he walks you back to your apartment - hesitating when you left the door open as invitation.

Jason took the time to admire rge interior, a taste true to you rather than that of safe houses and hotels although he still felt tension in the air but distracted himself with the forgotten documents on your coffee table. It was nothing of importance, the vigilante more interested in the sketch pad below them and flicked through each skilful drawing before stopping on one in particular.

It was more beautiful than the rest, though that could be personal opinion but it seemed as if more time and care was put into it to ensure it was perfect.

“A self portrait, really (Y/n)?”

“What are you talking about smartass.” You mused, placing 2 glasses of water on the table raising a brow at your guest.

“This one.” Jason handed the book to you, instantly revealing what seemed to be a reflection. The image displayed yourself from the elbow upwards with a soft smile, sitting casually on the window ledge with a mug in your hands as your gaze drifted to the city skyline.

“It’s Kyles, I didn’t realise he left it here. I knew he could draw, he’s a graphic artist after all, but this is...” Your fingers delicately traces over the intricate lines and then to your friend’s signature.

“Breathtaking.” Whether that was meant for the artwork or the person depicted in it you’d never know, yourself entranced by the work and as a result you missed the heartbroken expression Jason wore as he’d spoken.

“Yeah.” You agreed, still distracted.

“(Y/n) where were y- ah.” The voice startled your concentration, a pleased smile appearing on your lips once you’d recognised it.

“Artemis?! What are you doing here?” The ravenette exclaimed, looking between the two of you in confusion.

“What are you doing here Jason?” The Amazonian wittily responded, hands on her hips as you knew you’d have to piece everything together for them.

[author-morgan]

Phobia ☤ Alexios

fourteen - the hospitality of pirates

masterlist

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”

Fate decrees two kindred souls from two different empires will find one another, and the spear shall be made whole again.

POSEIDON HAS BESTOWED them with a calm night at sea. The breeze is gentle and warm. Filling the sails to aid their journey to Keos. The water is dark and tranquil, save for the rise and fall of the tides. Everyone aboard the Adrestia are enjoying the quiet, but Alexios is restless. It's like he isn't sure what to do with himself in moments of peace anymore. Even Barnabas and the historian have taken a reprieve from the helm for the night.

The Eagle Bearer glances over his shoulder at the princess. Her bronze-scaled linothorax is tossed aside, lying next to his dark leather cuirass. White linen is still wrapped around her thigh, exposed by the way her Athenian blue chiton rides up. She's asleep or resting her eyes -he's unsure which it is, but he goes to her out of impulse.

Alexios crouches next to her and lays his hand on her shoulder –whispering her name. "Fuck," she breathes, rolling onto her side. A moment later one of her eyes opens -sparkling like storm clouds right before lightning strikes- and focuses on the person who'd disrupted her blissful dream.

He smiles, and Irene supposes there are worst sights to look upon after being woken. "You've got a foul mouth, princess," he notes, teasing.

She glares at him. You shouldn't curse so much Zephyr used to say, she'd never taken that advice. Few things could provide instant satisfaction like a well-timed curse. "And you've got a foul scent, misthios," Irene bites back, propping her head up.

His smile falters -caught off guard by how quickly she utters the sharp response. "You speak to anyone like that?" Alexios asks, imagining certain people wouldn't take kindly to being insulted in such a manner. He's earned more than a few bloody noses and black eyes for not biting his tongue.

Irene sits up and stretches, lifting her arms out and above her head. "Believe me," she says, breath catching when her back pops, "this silvertongue has gotten me into and out of a lot of trouble."

A concupiscent glint appears in his eyes -dark and warm like cinnamon. Alexios smirks. "Is that all it can do?" Irene rolls her eyes and pushes him off-balance. He falls back to the deck, laughing softly.

"So why did you disturb my slumber?" She asks, crossing her arms. He doesn't say anything, only rises from the deck and motions for her to follow. The princess follows him to the bow of the Adrestia.

"What are you doing?" Irene bids as he steps over the prow of the ship and slides down onto the gilded ram. "You're mad!" She hisses, trying not to wake everyone aboard the ship. Alexios ignores her. Once he balances himself, he turns and extends his hand toward her. Against better judgment, Irene places her hand in his.

Alexios steadies her as the ram dips below the water's surface and Irene extends her arms out like wings -feeling the salt spray kiss her palms. Before her is only open water, shining silver with the Moon's reflection. No land in sight, nor another vessel. Among the sea's powers is the ability to make even the bravest of warriors feel small. The princess closes her eyes, succumbing to her reverie.

"Feels like you're flying doesn't it?" Only after he speaks does Irene realize how close they are –his chest, sans armor, is flush against her back, strong hands are holding her onto her waist, his warm breath hitting her neck. She shivers despite the warm and humid air.

KEOS, LESTRIS, AND Seriphos form the triad known as the Pirate Islands. In all her travels, Irene has never lingered near them for longer than needed. The rumors surrounding how Koressia came to be under pirate control were enough to even make veteran sailors bristle with discomfort. Clear, turquoise waters give Keos the veneer of paradise. After docking in Poiessa though, the stench of death becomes apparent and Irene realizes every rumor ever told about the pirates of Keos was true.

Phobos stops on a hill overlooking the burnt city of Koressia, though the temple dedicated to Athena remains unscathed save for the black banners hanging from scaffolds. Alexios dismounts Phobos and looks up at the princess still astride the blood bay stallion. She'd offered to go with him to meet Xenia, but he insists on going alone. This quest was his burden no matter how willing she was to help shoulder the weight.

He ties his sword, bow, and quiver to Phobos' saddle blanket, but secures the broken spear to his back with a rope baldric. He's not foolish enough to march into a pirate settlement completely unarmed. "I'll meet you back at the Adrestia," he tells her, setting off along a narrow, winding path downward. Irene waits until he is out of sight before taking up the reins and turning Phobos back toward Poiessa.

Alexios returns as the final supplies are being loaded below deck. Barnabas is eager to put the Pirate Islands behind him. Irene learns it had been off the northern coast of Keos where his ship had sunk, stranding him and his beloved Leda -claiming his right eye too. As if that hadn't been enough, they washed up on a white sand beach greeted at spear and knifepoint by the malákes.

By sunset they leave port again, charting a course to Korinthia to follow Alkibiades lead with the hetaera. Xenia provided the information Alexios seeks for a price and provides the opportunity to hunt the Golden Feather of Ajax should he wish to earn the fee back. Barnabas, Herodotus, Irene, and Alexios sit and the small fire at the stern of the ship, sharing a sweet Samian wine.

"My mother!" The Eagle Bearer exclaims as Irene passes a kylix of watered wine to him. "A pirate!" A piece of him wonders if Xenia had told the truth, but the fondness in the pirate queen's voice tells him she had.

"She sounds like quite a woman," Irene remarks, shifting closer to both the fire and Alexios. Daughter of King Leonidas, fugitive of Sparta and pirate -the list of monikers for Myrrine may very well grow longer before he is reunited with his mother.

TELLIA GROANS, THREE fingers on her draw hand are mangled after fending off a pirate trireme and pentekonter. Irene prepares a cataplasm of aloe and symphis for after the procedure and checks the dagger placed in the brazier. It is not ready yet. She kneels next to the archer and presents an anodyne of hemlock and violet mixed with watered wine -for pain. Tellia downs the bitter drink, tossing the silver cup aside and takes a strip of leather between her teeth.

Irene binds Tellia's forefinger and thumb together -they were not maimed as the others. Flesh hangs from bone and blood puddles beneath her hand. The smallest finger must be removed completely, but the other two can be salvaged below the first knuckle. The princess checks the dagger again, this time the iron blade is glowing red. Mikythos kneels, having agreed to assist, and grips onto the hilt of the cautery.

The archer screams to the heavens when Irene brings down the edge of a freshly sharpened knife, severing the smallest finger. Before she screams again, the other two mangled extremities are gone too. Mikythos presses the flat of the glowing blade against the bloody stumps. Tellia's eyes go wide before she faints against the mast.

Pleased with how the wounds sealed, Irene thanks Mikythos for his assistance and bids him discard the amputated fingers. She washes away the blood and cleans the burns before applying the cataplasm and wrapping Tellia's disfigured hand with linen. She wouldn't draw a bow again, but she could learn to wield a sword and shield.

Despite the slim cut on her cheek and arm, the princess insists on tending to others -it's in her nature. Though she is skilled with a blade and has sent more than a handful of people to the Gates of Hades, there's an innate desire deep in her being to help others. By the time she cleans and binds the wounds of both rowers and warriors, it has grown late. She retires beneath the bowpost, stretching out aching limbs. Soon after, Alexios joins her. "You're unscathed?" Irene asks, raising a dark brow at the blood still staining his cuirass.

He nods and a smirk crosses his lips. "I am the Eagle Bearer," Alexios remarks, tone cocksure and goading as though that title alone makes him untouchable. She rolls her eyes, leaning forward to loosen the ties of her dented greaves -one of the strips of cloth has slipped into a tight knot. His fingers brush over hers, breaking her focus as he deftly pulls on the tie and forcing the knot to come loose. Irene pushes back her hair, tucking dark strands behind her ear. "You have my thanks for helping the crew," Alexios tells her, his smile genuine.

Irene settles back into the alcove. "Well, you better hope we don't run into many more pirates on the way to Korinth. I don't have many herbs left." She'd used the last of the hemlock to help ease Tellia's pain, even her store of dry fennel was nearly gone. Alexios leans back next to Irene and crosses his arms. Gaze quickly darting from her to the sky where the last light of the sun is slipping away beneath the dark horizon.

"Trouble has a nasty habit of following me," he tells her. The princess lets a dry chuckle pass through her lips -trouble follows her too and in that aspect, perhaps they are a match made by the gods.