#setting him loose from captivity (sitting in drafts for months)

[sirhinkjinks]

big blue

[rajakaen]

Reflection Rtuesday

Help, last week I got tagged by @jukkaricity to participate at @thedissonantverses' share the shit you're holding back Reflection Ruesday

Yeah, I've got way too much stuff lying around or never post finished work 'cause I get super anxious about negative feedback or getting none at all >.> That's why I don’t stress about how long things take, whether I finish them or scrap hours of work if the result fails my expectations. Same with turning drafts into actual stories—I know how they should look and feel and what they're about, but… yeah. A Bad habit? Probably some low-key social anxiety I've picked up over the years. Uploading anything regarding my own thought processes (including OC's) just stresses me TF out ^^; ──────────────────────────────

Anyway… I've been poking at this one drawing of Tahr’rys for over a year now, but I can't bring myself to finish it 'cause I suck at rendering in general; especially faces… ──────────────────────────────

Then there's the ref sheet of Relah—his, uh… she's a good friend of his. Don't ask them about it. They're way beyond complicated lol. I'll finish the sheet one day. There's still so much work to do... (Yes, she's loosely based on Ashara Zavros) ────────────────────────────── Also, tossing in a text prompt I'll probably never write out, but I like it. It's kinda key to Tahr'rys and Relah's dynamic and how their story unfolds. The draft is heavy and moody, as most related to this character. It's a private scene in T's quarter aboard Neo's Freighter, en route from the Outer Rim to the Unknown Regions. Taking place around 32826 TYA / 26 ATC. 3627 Doomsday Calendar

Content Warning: themes related to trauma & mental health

Tahr’rys lived with Neongard for nearly a decade after being captured by the Dar’Manda bounty hunter—three years after his Jōhatsu from the Sith, in the wake of Zakuul’s conquest of the known galaxy's major powers. Over time, their relationship shifted from captor and captive to a working partnership, though not an entirely friendly one. The men spent a considerable amount of time in the cramped confines of Neo’s freighter, the Prancing Anvil, travelling through the galaxy, always on the lookout for a rewarding job. Eventually, the former Sith began helping Neo with his contracts, having nowhere else to go and no idea how to move on—or where to begin.

As fate would have it, Tahr’rys and Relah crossed paths during one of those missions—long after their fallout during their days with the Sith. This time, circumstances between them are different and they have managed to reconnect over the past few months. His years with Neo and everything T has endured since have changed him. Not exactly for the better, but she recognizes that he is less hostile, less agitated. Relah, by contrast, had escaped the Sith and returned to the Jedi, while T was burying himself in the Sphere’s demands. Last time she’d seen him, he had lashed out without warning, how one wrong word had set him off. Still unsure whether this new version of T is truly different, R somehow managed to get him to open up for the first time. 

The two are seated on his L-shaped couch, separated by a small table but maintaining a noticeable distance. The quarter is cool, austere—sparsely furnished and seemingly barely lived in. Nothing lies around; only Tahr’rys’ leather jacket hangs loosely over a chair, while a few scattered items and his saberstaff rest on the desk. On the bed across the room lies a closed holobook. The overall lighting is subdued, with T’s vivarium on the wall casting a soft glow across their faces and the space around them. The air carries the scent of plants and damp earth, laced with a metallic tang and the faint smell of ageing machinery. It is quiet, aside from the occasional creak of the ship’s frame as it travels through hyperspace. Neo is in the cockpit. T sits with his back to us, only part of his profile visible. Opposite him sits Relah, hands folded on her legs, listening intently to his words. Her posture isn’t entirely relaxed and betrays a touch of nervousness. Expressions shift across R’s face—concern, disbelief, sorrow and, occasionally, a faint smile. Her green eyes remain fixed on him. Throughout the scene, T sits motionless, talking with a low, even voice; neither gesturing nor shifting. His posture is stooped, head slightly lowered with his eyes fixed on the ground as if he’s directing his monologue to the floor beneath R, tho his words are undoubtedly meant for her. He speaks about his past, what happened to him, what he participated and what led him here. We can’t hear their conversation. They remain like this for a long while; the former Sith talking and the Jedi listening. Then something he says causes an abrupt change. Relah’s face stills. The colour drains slightly as she blinks once, then again, trying to process what she’s heard. Without a word, she rises, prompting the first visible reaction from T. He lifts his head, eyes catching the light with an uncanny reflectiveness—an orange hue, like dull embers in a dying fire. R says nothing, but the following silence is louder than anything she could’ve said. As she turns away and steps aside, T shifts to follow her with his gaze. Raising a hand in a weak, imploring gesture, but letting it fall almost immediately. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move as she walks past him, leaving the room. Once he’s alone, the man lowers his gaze and folds in on himself, burying his face in his hands and closing his eyes. He doesn’t cry; he simply sits there, silent and unmoving. Whatever he had been processing comes to a halt, his conscious self shutting down entirely. Still, time moves on, and the old freighter hums steadily around him. Metal beams creak and a faint vibration runs through the floor as the Prancing Anvil shifts in hyperspace. The lights dim noticeably as the vivarium adjusts to a new cycle. Somewhere, a system resets with a soft mechanical chime—but Tahr’rys remains unaffected by it all, present only in form. Some time passes before the bulkhead to T’s quarters slides open. Relah enters, carrying two cups of steaming tea. She sets them down on the table in front of him, speaking briefly but not looking at him directly. Then she pauses—something seems off. Her gaze shifts to the man on the couch and her lips form his name. No response. Her brows furrow. She repeats, but still, he doesn’t react. After a moment of hesitation, she reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. Nothing. She’s never seen anyone—least of all this impossible person—in a state like this. For a few seconds, she just stands there, uncertain. Then she begins pacing the confined space, gesturing as she moves, before finally settling beside him. Even then, he doesn’t react.

Relah exhaled, frustrated, her eyes drifting toward the cooling tea on the table. After a while, she straightens to reach for one and takes a sip, then shifts slightly, sliding a little away from T to get a clearer look at him. He remains hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands—his body slack but not fully collapsed, still holding enough tension to keep from completely sinking in on himself. Her gaze lingers, lips tightening slightly as a realization takes shape. This had happened after she walked out. That much is clear. But whatever line she crossed, she couldn’t quite grasp it. There’s no way to reach him and nothing within her abilities might bring him back. Setting the cup back on the table, she leans in again—this time, resting her head against his shoulder, waiting for him to return.

[honestandsincere]

reputation part five

"Of all places for a clandestine meeting, you've outdone yourself, y/l/n."

He speaks in hushed tones, the rasp of his voice barely hovering above a whisper. They're alone, save for the man sat behind a seemingly oversized wooden desk, typing softly on his computer. The air feels cold; the high ceiling looming overhead and the rounded curves of the timber framing leave no room for warmth. Books are packed tightly into glass cases, saved from the damaging effects of exposure and time, and yet the room smells like dog-eared pages and temperate paper.

"I figured we wouldn't be seen," she shrugs, gazing intently at the brass bust of Shakespeare, her fingers itching to run themselves over the intricate carving of his ruffled collar. "Sadly, the gossip forums don't think I'm a reader," Ethan hums, turning to acknowledge the bard. "Yes, that is sad."

He hasn't seen her in almost three weeks, not that he's been counting. It was as if she'd vanished off the surface of the earth the night she had left his apartment in Tribeca. After they had kissed. He knew better than to try and contact her afterwards, he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he came to realise that maybe they would never cross paths again. Y/n had said that she would not let Howard Benson publish her first draft, the article that should have been printed if Ethan Dolan had not read it before it hit newsstands across the city. Y/n y/l/n is a determined woman. Consequently, the ties between them had been cut as quickly as they had been knotted. As their lips left one another's she'd uttered something along the lines of an apology and hurried to the elevator, avoiding his eyes as the metal doors slid closed.

Ethan had received a text message from her this morning, as her name flashed across the screen of his phone his pulse had picked up its pace and his palms became damp. Y/n wanted to meet him in the library, in room 302 of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building which he later found out was housing the Berg Collection of English and American Literature. He wants to laugh at how fitting their meeting place is, how well she'd thought this all out, but he's occupied with the sheer wonder of being in her presence again.

"Do you know the collection holds the works and manuscripts of 400 authors?" she asks him, not taking her eyes from William's receded hairline. "That's a lot of paper," Ethan says. "Or parchment." "Yes, or vellum." Y/n turns to the corner of the room and points towards a small mahogany table and chair set, papers sprawling over the desk's surface, "That was Dickens'." "Doesn't look too comfortable, does it?" Ethan's eyes scan the thin lining of cushion across the seat. "No, not particularly," she folds her arms and for the first time since he's entered the room, turns to look at him.

Y/n does not know what she was expecting him to look like. Three weeks is not long enough for somebody to change dramatically - unless perhaps they decide to shave off all their hair or tattoo their face in honour of their mother. Ethan Dolan is drastic, but not that drastic. He looks young, in the yellow-toned light of room 302, clean-shaven and as chiselled as ever. His cheekbones are still broad, his jaw still prominent and his brow is pulled into its usual half-furrow. She notes that he's wearing a sweatshirt, Havard University's crest printed on its front. He looks like a student himself. As frustratingly impossible it is to admit, Ethan Dolan is still inexplicably gorgeous.

"I haven't seen you in a while, y/l/n," he says softly. Ethan takes his time to appreciate y/n's familiar lack of change. She's as captivating as ever and it's painful. "I know." "Do you want to maybe sit down? So we can talk?" he gestures to the table set up presumably for researchers to delve into the precious novels and albums of notes, with gloved hands of course. She nods. They lower themselves into chairs opposite one another, she looks at him and smiles ruefully.

"I'm sorry for not contacting you sooner," Y/n says. "Honestly, it's no problem. If anything I should apologise for making things awkward," his hands rest on the soft velvet covering the table, y/n glances quickly at the Cartier signet ring adorning his right index finger. "It takes two to tango," she chuckles lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I shouldn't have stormed off like that." Ethan shifts in his seat and leans closer towards her, "Listen, y/n, if you didn't want to kiss me that's totally fine. I shouldn't have just come onto you that way, it was really rude and considering the circumstances I-"

Y/n shakes her head, setting loose the wayward wave she'd tried hard to keep from her face. Her eyes are set on his whisky-coloured irises, she sees nothing but integrity which three weeks ago had become familiar. "It's not that I didn't want you to kiss me," she interjects. "Oh." "In fact, I think you went about it rather well. It was just crap timing." "Yeah, I guess."

They sit in silence for a while, trying not to look at each other. Ethan busies himself with twisting his ring slowly around his finger, his mouth opening every now and then to speak before being stopped by his inability to think of the right thing to say. Y/n turns around to look at the librarian, typing away blissfully ignorant to the tension surrounding the other occupants of the room. She clears her throat quietly, "I left because I don't want Benson to publish draft one." He looks up at her, his eyes wide and reminiscent of a disgustingly adorable puppy or a child that's been denied an extra slice of cake at a birthday party. "Ethan, if you and I were to continue our friendship; whether it be staged or genuine, Howard will try and step in. He claims it's for my benefit, for my career, but I know that it's only for the sake of LIFE's reputation." "It sucks," he says. "I know, but it's not as though we were ever going to be more than friends or acquaintances-" "No, y/n," he interrupts her, looking down at his folded hands and shaking his head, "it sucks that you let Howard Benson dictate who you can and cannot be seen with."

Y/n's brows knit together into a disconcerted frown, "I'm not letting Howard Benson do anything." "You are. He's your boss, I get it. He is not in the position to manage your personal life, friendships included." She huffs and pushes forward in her seat, "Do you not understand why I'm doing this? It's for the sake of your image, Ethan! For your sacred reputation, I'm saving your skin here." "And I appreciate that, really I do. It's just that Benson can't print the article without my permission."

Suddenly they're both aware of how their voices have raised slightly above hushed murmurs, y/n looks over her shoulder to find the man at the desk completely unfazed. She breathes a sigh of relief and exasperation. "He will do," she whispers, "if it means keeping the magazine's sponsors." "I can't believe you - of all people - are just acquiescing to these trivial little mind games!" he hisses. Y/n laughs, but it holds no humour, "Screw you, Ethan Dolan. You just don't like being told what to do." "Don't turn on me, y/n," he warns her, a look of businessman severity crossing his beautifully angeled face. "Watch me," she slides her chair from under the table, its wooden legs inducing a hideous screech as they drag along the floor of room 302. The man at the desk looks up and sends her a frown to which she apologises sheepishly and leaves the room.

Ethan can't help but feel a horrible sense of deja vu.

-----------

Grayson Dolan's feet are rested on the desk in front of him, his leather brogues crossed casually over one another. In his right fist is a stress ball his mother had bought him a few Christmases ago and in his left hand is a mug of coffee Carol had handed to him. He gives her a quick nod of thanks before turning to his brother. Sat on the opposite side of their private office, Ethan Dolan wears a scowl as prominent as the Rockefeller Center on New York's skyline. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his blazer having been discarded hours ago, his hair is dishevelled and he runs his hand through it for the fifth time in a solid minute.

"You're being ridiculous, Ethan." "No, I'm not." "You are," Grayson sips his drink before excusing Carol from the room. "I am not! If anything she's the one being ridiculous." "Who? The cat's mother?" "Shut up."

Grayson Dolan had made the awful mistake of asking his brother why he hadn't been spending time with his fake girlfriend recently. As much as he refuses to admit it, Grayson has missed seeing his brother in the papers or on gossip sites, smiling wildly with y/n y/l/n by his side. Ethan has been nothing but fractious over the past month, refusing to attend meetings and barely showing his face at Dolan & Dolan HQ in Manhattan. There's a permanent frown etched on his pale face, his brows constantly drawn inward and his lips chapped from the constant worrying of his teeth.

"Y/n is literally saving your ass." "I am aware." "So why are you being such a whiny bitch?" Grayson sets his mug down in front of him and begins squeezing the foam ball in his hand, he finds it amusing that perhaps his brother is in more need of it than he is. "Because she's letting Howard Benson walk all over her!" Ethan slams a fist on the table, only to jump slightly at the way his computer shakes violently in the aftershock. "What do you want, E? You want that article out there for the world to see?" "No, of course not-" "Well, shut up then."

Ethan knows his brother is right, he has no reason to sulk. If anything he should be jumping for joy, finally after months of constant apprehension the first draft will be destroyed. He just can't ever see y/n y/l/n again. Now, in theory, this should be straightforward. Y/n and Ethan have never really seen eye to eye; they live in different worlds, in different social spheres and both have completely different ambitions. Their conflict was inevitable, their friendship was unforeseeable and their current circumstances are beyond aggravating. Ethan Dolan does not want to be friends with y/n y/l/n, part of him thinks maybe it's through Howard Benson telling them they cannot associate with one another that makes him want to see her again.

He doesn't want to be her friend, but he cannot help it.

"So I've spoken to McTavish and Abernathy about selling the plots in Brooklyn," Grayson breaks the silence he'd created, his tone lighthearted. He picks up his feet from the desk and begins to type furiously on his keyboard, eyes flicking from side to side as he reads spreadsheets on the screen before him. "Really?" "Of course, I've really thought about what you said, E. We should try different tactics if we want to make a difference in business," the younger Dolan brother chooses his words tentatively. Tactics. "I couldn't agree more."

Ethan Dolan finds thinking about business rather sickening at this point in time. It had always been the focal point of his life; he started kindergarten determined to end up in the city, took extra classes in high school that would set his college resume apart from the rest, worked his ass off to get into Harvard and then played every trick in the book in order to end up where he is now. And suddenly he doesn't want to be here. All those economics lectures, every internship he could get his hands on and every late-night spent researching every loophole in the system mean nothing. It would be naive to say it's because of y/n, romantic even, but this isn't a rom-com. This is real and shitty and a situation so sticky it reminds him of the time he spilt a jar of molasses over his childhood self in his grandmother's kitchen.

Is he changing for the girl? Is the girl really changing him?

"You've gone soft," it's as though Grayson can read his mind, or maybe he's just been observing Ethan's face. "Have I?" Ethan stands from his swivel chair and walks towards the large window that overlooks Manhattan. He's done this countless times before, to think. To look over the relentless pace of the city and realise that every tiny ant-sized figure hurrying through the street below him will never cross paths with him. Lives don't intersect easily, no matter how small the world.

"You have. Ethan, when have you ever let someone or something stand in the way of what you want?" he doesn't turn to acknowledge his brother, but Ethan hangs on each of his words. He tries to think of when he has ever let something stop him, which is hard because it rarely ever happens. Ethan Dolan is a force of nature, inside and outside the boardroom. "Never. The answer is never. Howard Benson is threatening to publish y/n's draft, but when has he ever followed through on one of his intimidations? Again, the answer is never," Grayson pauses and Ethan takes his time to count how many taxi cabs make their way through the hoards of traffic. Fifteen. "Just do what you've always done, stop playing by stupid rules. Go do what you like, he can't stop you." "It's different this time," Ethan rasps, his voice weak from disuse.

It is different, very different. Ethan is not accustomed to being vulnerable, in his personal and in his work life. He's always had the upper hand. It is different this time because he's taking a risk. A big risk. Y/n y/l/n is his friend, despite the odds and their circumstances. She set out to ruin his life, whether it was intentional or not - she claims now that it was in journalistic pursuits and he calms himself by believing her. Ethan Dolan kissed y/n y/l/n and she kissed him back, taking their relationship from enemies to something verging on friendship to something that teeters precariously on the tightrope of awkward friendship that is more than a friendship. Does he want to pursue this? Does he want to drop everything and get to know her? Does he believe that Howard Benson really will print the slandering first draft? Ethan isn't sure and this is a foreign feeling.

"Jesus, you really have changed."

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

There's nothing more terrifying than the unknown.

The concept of not knowing leaves leeway for imaginations and anxieties to run riot, conjuring hypothetical situations in which nothing is ever in one's favour. Of course, you're also setting yourself up for disappointment in the realm of the unknown; if one devises a theoretical scenario that is bitterly different to reality - that hurts.

Ethan Dolan is terrified of the unknown.

His fist clenches around the bouquet in his hand. He's starting to regret buying them, but Grayson had insisted that they were a nice touch. Ethan could do with some nice touches. Being uneasy outside her front door is not a new sensation, he's been nervous before. But Ethan has never felt scared and this is scary. He does not know what y/n might be feeling, he's not certain that she even wants to see him ever since their mild altercation in the NYPL.

Before he has time to process his apprehensions, the door swings open.

Y/n stands before him in some jeans and a white t-shirt, her hair thrown up loosely into a knot. She doesn't look surprised, but not calm either. Ethan wishes he'd been blessed by the gods of telepathy.

"Hi," he says, wanting some kind of response from her. "Hey." Ethan thrusts the flowers awkwardly towards her, desperate for a topic of conversation, "These are for you," he says unnecessarily. "Thank you, Ethan. They're lovely."

Y/n's fingers brush his as she reaches for the bouquet, taking it in her hand and tucking them gently under her arm. Ethan is sure there's some unidentifiable crackle of electricity that passes between them, his hand is left tingling in the wake of her touch. It sounds bizarre but now he knows what the romantics mean by 'sparks flying'. "I uh," he stumbles over his words, his eyebrows rising in confusion at his own lack of eloquence, "I just wanted to apologise for what I said in the Library last week. It was unfair." She purses her lips, cocking her head to one side in a way that makes her look as though she's studying him, "Apology accepted."

Y/n makes no room for him to walk into her apartment, despite their meagre resolution. The orange lilies feel heavy all of a sudden, their scent dizzying as she inhales. There's a large part of her that wants to let him in, make him a cup of tea because she knows he avoids coffee after five in the evening and ask him about his day. Things are different now, circumstances have changes and tension hangs in the air like a thick black cloud of smog. Ethan stands before her, his arms held tightly behind his back, perhaps to refrain from touching her. He's in his white button-down shirt and navy dress pants meaning he's probably not long left the office or maybe is intending on going in to work late. The scene is well-known, she's used to seeing him like this, and yet it all feels so unnerving.

"It's not your job to please Benson and me simultaneously. I know that and I shouldn't have accused you of trying to appease him when you're doing it for my sake." "Thank you," she nods. "But y/n, whether or not Benson prints the article is not in your hands. I don't think we should let him get in the way of this," he gestures to the space between them, "whatever it may be, surely we should give it a chance?" Y/n quirks an eyebrow, readjusting the flowers in her grip, "Our friendship?" "Well, uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess."

His mind flashes to their kiss. Feeling her lips pressed against his, the way she had sighed in contentment, the way he felt alive. The surge of electricity that pulsed through his veins when the childhood sense of excitement and nervousness overwhelmed his sense of judgement. Their friendship. Y/n presses her eyes closed, exhaling through her nose defeatedly, "It is a shame, Ethan. I'd be lying if I said I don't want to carry on seeing you-" "Don't do this to yourself, don't let work get in the way of your feelings." "Feelings?" "You know what I mean, y/n."

She does. She knows exactly what he means and she deeply resents him for it. These burgeoning feelings she has, tempests of undiscovered passions, are having to be pushed aside for the sake of his reputation. Perhaps in a separate universe, y/n would have the opportunity to pace herself, to get to know Ethan and explore the bizarre and unprecedented attraction she feels towards him. If she had a normal job; maybe if she worked in marketing or banking or as a barista in the charming little coffee shop opposite LIFE Magazine HQ everything would not be as complex as it is. Y/n hates Ethan Dolan for being successful, she hates that his face is on every billboard and every newsstand in the city. It's revolting that each time she turns on her television after a long day at work, somehow his name is dropped or his picture is shown. If he wasn't Ethan Dolan and she wasn't y/n y/l/n, life would be simple.

"I like you, Ethan," she admits and he feels his stomach lurch, "I think that maybe if the odds were in our favour, there's a strong chance that I'd want to spend a lot more time with you." Y/n sounds as though she has more to say but she does not continue speaking. Ethan drops his head, his gaze now firmly on his black brogues, unable to look at her without feeling a little hurt. He should have seen this coming, should have prepared himself whilst he wallowed in the ferocity of the unknown. "Your reputation matters," she says, "to you, Grayson and now to me. It shouldn't matter. But it does. I won't risk LIFE ruining your good name. It's not worth it."

There's something about good, selfless people that's agonizingly annoying. Ethan Dolan is struck by this epiphany. As commendable and admirable as y/n's lack of ignorance is, he really wishes she wasn't so nice. Y/n, in an ideal world, would decide to throw up a crude hand gesture towards Benson's empty threat and spend more time with Ethan, whether it is in the public eye or not. Y/n, again in an ideal world, would realise that she shouldn't care about Ethan's name in the business sphere and decide to traverse their flourishing friendship because she actually does like him. Alas, y/n is not arrogant or egotistical or parsimonious. She sees sense, it just sucks that she cares.

"I wish it didn't come down to this," he croaks, then clears his throat, looking up at her with those big whisky-coloured eyes, "Y/n, my reputation doesn't bother me anymore. Dolan & Dolan is changing, Grayson and I have been finalising our new arrangements. If your article gets out and people decide to look into it, they'll find nothing but our newer records - filled with good things." "It's not that easy." "I don't care! We can just say it's a fake, or that someone in the magazine's editorial team threw you under the bus-" "And risk me losing my job?" her eyes are wide with incredulity. "Jesus, y/n! Please, just give me a chance. We can meet in secret if it makes things easier for you? At least until this whole thing blows over. Howard Benson doesn't have to know anything."

She opens her mouth, full lips looking as though they're going to spill the words he's aching to hear. Y/n smiles ruefully at Ethan, he notes the way her eyes dance around his face and feels a pang of hopelessness. This is her taking in every little detail before it all ends, there's a heavy mist of finality hanging around them and it makes him want to cry. It's not even the rejection that's going to hurt him the most, it's losing her. Or at least what they could have had. In Ethan Dolan's world, integrity and honesty are incredibly arduous to unearth, he knows this from first-hand experience. Y/n y/l/n has always been upright and honest with him, he's wanted to tear his own hair out at some of her acts, but he appreciates this beyond anything his wealth could buy him. Ethan no longer cares about his ego or his money or his persona, he cares about y/n.

"Ethan, you know I wish I could say yes."

"Yeah, I know."

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

Hello! I'm so so so sorry for my absence over the past few months! Ironically, all my motivation and inspiration evaporates into absolute nothingness as soon as summer (and lots and lots of spare time) rolls around. I know this chapter is really short, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!

[writer-chan97]

A short story draft of my Rogue Soldier au. This is how Gary saved Quinn in space, also reuniting. And I think in this au, I’ll make Quinn’s last name spelled out as Airgon. His au is not cannon anyways. Enjoy!

———

“Gary. I’m receiving a mayday call.” Once H.U.E. said this, he displayed a holographic projection of a malfunctioning escape pod on the main monitor, lights blaring red as the distress call broadcasted in the brig.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is Quinn Airgon! Can anyone hear me? Help me!”

Gary’s eyes widened in shock. It had been a long time, but he would never forget that voice. “Oh, my gosh... it’s Quinn.” It was the same Quinn who he was infatuated for two years ago, and the same Quinn who has been pursuing him ever since he went rough against the Infinity Guard. They ran in to each other several times since then, a few close calls where he was almost captured, but this was the first time in five months.

“My name is Quinn Airgon! I’m a captain of the Infinity Guard who’s been investigating a gravitational disturbance which I now see is a breach in space. Many people are dead, and I’m about to join them if I don’t- Ahhhh! Is there not a single idiot out there who can hear me?”

Gary could hear beeping alarm in the shaky background noise. She sounded scared. Yes, she had been a pain to get rid of, but he wouldn’t wish this on her.

“Should we respond?” H.U.E asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Avocato said, his facial expression blunt during the whole call. He took the hologram off the display and leaned back on his chair.

“Why not?” Gary turned to his friend quickly, surprised at his heartless answer.

“It’s a bad idea Gary. She’s Infinity Guard. She’s either gonna turn us in or kill us.”

“She’s going to die, Avocato! She’s not one of them.”

“Gary, are you sure we can trust her? What if this turns into a big mistake?”

Gary looked down, knowing a million things could turn for the worst if he saves her. He might end up regretting it, but he would regret letting an innocent person die even more. “Then I guess it’s a mistake I’ll have to fix. Either way, we can’t just sit around and let her die. H.U.E., set course to the coordinates to the pod. It’s time for a rescue.”

“I’ll help too, Gary!” KVN intercepted Gary’s path, getting close to his face.

“Out of my way, KVN!” Gary aggressively shoved the giant ball robot to the side as he gently descended down the elevator.

The pulse engines spun and charged. Soon, then entire ship was engulfed in fast-moving light as it light folded across space. As Gary floated down the elevator into the airlock, the ship was within reach of the escape pod spiraling out of control.

The danger sirens inside the pod were projecting louder as sparks and smoke flew all over Quinn’s face. All controls were failing. Afraid, almost at the break of giving up, she spotted an Infinity Guard ship approaching her. Hope! She didn’t care who it was, somebody actually came to save her!

Gary hooked himself to the cable and lowered the door. Once the hatch fully opened, Gary took several steps back, got a running start and leaped into the could of space, souring straight to the pod.

Quinn slammed her fist on the eject button. As her seat automatically secured her helmet, tightening the air pressure, Quinn was propelled out of her chair just as the pod exploded into flames and debris. The projection shot her straight into the direction of the incoming astronaut.

Gary could see her. He extended his arm as she did hers. At the moment they clasped hands, she accidentally slipped out of grasp. Quinn gasped as she felt her blood go cold, her life lost before her eyes.

In that split second, Gary quickly grabbed the collar of her suit out of reflex. He sighed in relief, his heart almost dropping from what could have ended badly. Quinn got a hold of his arm as the harness wire slowly reeled them back to the ship.

Once inside, Gary had a slightly rough landing as his body crashed into a row of metal barrels like a bowling ball hitting a strike. The hatch closed behind them, making it safe for Quinn to remove her helmet. She took a deep breath, calming down from the near death experience.

Gary looked up at her and for some reason felt astonished, as if he met her for the first time again. Their encounters were never in good terms, but for the first time in two years, she was smiling at him. That genuine, perfect smile he had almost forgotten.

“Nice work,” she commended, giving him a hand.” I need to commandeer your ship. I have a Class 3 emergency.” As she helped him back up to his feet, Gary snapped out of his captivation and realized that she probably didn’t realize who she was talking to.

He removed his helmet and shook her hand, returning the smile. “And you’re looking well.”

Quinn’s face immediately shifted to utter shock a dread “You?!”

Before Gary could say anything, Quinn squeezed his hand tight and twisted his arm, turning Gary around as she physically restrained his arms.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Hey! You know, a proper ‘thank you’ would‘ve been the appropriate reaction to saving your life. Twice, now.”

“Shut up! By order of the Infinity Guard, you are under arrest.”

Gary grinned. “Arrest me? Really? On MY ship?”

“An Infinity Guard ship that YOU stole!”

As Quinn reached down her back pocket to pull out energy cuffs, Gary took that open opportunity to dislocate his robotic arm. Once the arm was unhinged from the shunt, the limb went limp and loose. With Quinn briefly confused at what just happened, Gary freely spun around to untwist his arm and swim a round-house kick. Quinn blocked the blow and took a step back when he swung his other leg.

She pulled out her gun but before she could pull the trigger, Gary threw his trench coat at her, blocking her view. She shot a few holes at it out of impulse before yanking it out of the air. Gary has already rolled over to his prosthetic arm and relocked it in place. He pulled out his gun and shot Quinn’s gun out of her hand.

The Infinity Guard captain charged at Gary, kicking the gun out of his hand. The two were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat. “Look, I don’t want to fight you,” Gary tried to reason, but got kicked in the face. He fell back with blood running down from his nostrils.

Quinn kicked him again in the stomach, turning him over with Gary on his hands and knees. She stood over him and pinned him down with the gun pressed against his head. “Finally, after all these years I finally-”

In mid-sentences, Avocato karate-chopped her in the neck from behind, knocking her out cold. As she collapsed, Gary sat up and wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Avocato didn’t say anything. He simply looked down at Gary with an unsurprised expression.

“I think that worked out pretty well,” Gary said.

[daft-not-punk]

Click-Click (One Shot)

Bruce Banner x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) has had it! She is tired of all the clicking and noises that came from Bruce’s damn Rubik's Cube! After thinking he would have been finished by now, her patience starts to grow thin.

Warnings: Fluff and swearing

Word Count: I have no damn clue.

Author’s Note: MY FIRST FIC! Damn man. This took way to long, no one told me that this was so frustrating! But I did it. My non dialogue writing ass finally did it. This after about 7 different drafts that went no where, I finally made one that didn’t go dry. I want to thank @writeyourownname for the encouragement and @diyqueen777 aka my lil sis for absolutely nothing, just being a little shit and for nagging me till finished this. I lastly want to tag @the-blue-haired-boy. I may not know them but I love their fics and they were an inspiration to me. THANKS YA’LL!

Click-Click

“He’s been working on it for the past four months now and he still hasn’t even come close.” (Y/N) got a glimpse  of Tony out the corner of her eye as the two both stared at Bruce. They were sitting in the back in limo, they had just gotten back from attending one of Tony’s award shows and were finally heading home after the long day. Tony let out a small chuckle before looking over at the woman next to him, “Well you know Bruce, once he starts he won’t stop till he accomplishes it.” Unfortunately, this fact was proven to be true. You could ask anyone of the Avengers and they would all say the same thing: Bruce was a stubborn ass man. No matter the efforts that everyone put into trying get Bruce to set down the cube, he would always manage to his paws back on it. He was like a fucking crack addict. 

The colored sections of puzzled moved with ease with every movement of Bruce’s thick fingers. His glasses had shimmied down to the bridge of his, his dark curls fell to the sides of his face and his tongue was stuck out the corner of his mouth. The scientist posture screamed focus and demeanor could easily tell you not to touch him or even talk to him at the moment. (Y/N) shook her head lightly, brushing some loose hairs behind her ear, “It’s your fault Tony, you gave him the thing.” her tone was laced with anger, annoyance and a bit of sass. Tony threw his hands up to defend himself, “The man has 7PHDs , I just assumed that a Rubik's Cube would take him the good half of an afternoon.” he stated. “Apparently you were wrong.” (Y/N) said rather bluntly, “He works on the thing all the damn time; While eating, working, before and after meetings or missions, before bed, when he gets a break, I think he even takes it into the shower with him!” she exclaimed, Bruce still not even flinching at the sound of her voice.

The endless clicking could be heard through the halls of the Tower. The noise could be heard on days that were meant for relaxation, creating more stress for anyone who had not yet learned to ignore the sound. Bruce commonly would sit in the common room trying to solve the cube. Others started to place bets on whether Bruce would finish it within a day or the next month. Let’s just say that many of the Avengers are in debt with Natasha. Thor would commonly sit next to the scientist and watch him try to get one of the sides or wait till he came close to having only one section left. Even though the hobby would leave (Y/N) debating on whether to chuck the damn plastic puzzle over the balcony, she was happy to see that Bruce was doing something a bit productive that didn’t  cause him much stress. Still, that doesn’t mean that she was willing to suffer for too long.

The three nerds had finally gotten back too the tower and they loaded themselves into the elevator. Bruce’s eyes were still plastered on the multicolored cube even as they walked from the car and to the building. When the bell dinged, something deep inside of (Y/N) triggered and she snatched the Rubik's cube from Bruce’s paws. His eyes quickly widened and darted to the woman who basically just took away his precious cube. He was about to take it back but jolted his hand back when (Y/N) let out a small hiss and started on the Rubik’s Cube. Tony was trying to hold in his fit of laughter as he looked at the shocked and almost betrayed face Bruce and then glanced back at the smaller woman who had started on the cube.

Bruce was captivated by her face, the look of concentration and dedication she was putting in to solve the cube. He knew for a fact that (Y/N) was a very intelligent woman, he has been working with her for about a year now and always had treated her with the respect that she deserved. It wasn’t that he doubted that she couldn’t solve it, he simply thought that it would take her a good month or so.

Click-Click

The elevator door opened as (Y/N) handed Bruce the solved Rubik’s Cube before walking straight to her room, leaving both Tony and Bruce speechless and genuinely surprised. “Now that’s impressive.” Tony said and cracked a small smile as he looked at Bruce. The look on the poor man’s face was priceless. A million thoughts ran through his head he didn’t saw a word. Tony waited for about 30 seconds before putting his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “Bruce, you alright? Say something.”  Bruce looked up at Tony, his eyes full of satisfaction and content. He opened his mouth to say something but quickly closed it. Bruce looked over at (Y/N)’s door and smiled, “I think I’m in love.”

[rosalynbair]

Deadlines

Words: 4558

Au: Soulmate, coffee shop, tattooed!Hux and Author!Hux (So many AU’s so little words)

request: can i get a thin (i’m really skinny) fem!reader in third where the reader is a uni student and frequents a café and meets hux who doesn’t believe in soulmates and is an author and the reader approaches him and they start dating. Could you also include their breakup?  and Tattooed!Hux

His eyes caught hers, losing himself in the deepest shade of blue that he’s ever seen. She had never been around the café before, at least, not when he was around. He would have noticed an ethereal beauty like hers before now. Her voice danced through the warm air of the café’s walls. It was low, soothing in a way. The kind you would want to speak to a man in pain. She stood at the counter, legs parted only an inch. Her boots were dripping with melted snow, and the leggings she wore were slightly darker right above where the boots ended from the snow she had likely stepped in. His eyes travel slowly up her slender calves, following the line of her thighs to the tight bum that was holding her pants up. Going further upwards, her figure was lost in an open jacket and a loose knitted sweater. Her neck protruded from the neckline, stray hairs falling from the messy knot upon her head. Even from the distance, he noticed the multiple gold studs that were in her ears. “Witches brew, no milk, one sugar” She says gently “And one of the vegan muffins” “right away! I’ll bring it out to you as soon as it’s done” the barista says, grabbing a cup and a sharpie “Can I get your name?” The syllables fell from her lips, and Armitage closes his eyes, saying her name in his head a few times. It was a beautiful name, it suited her. He looks down when she turns, facing the seating areas. Her eyes flit over the slender, orange haired man in one of the seats, a quilt that was supplied by the café was folded and resting on the bench behind him. In her brief assessment, she notices the peaks of a tattoo from the tops of his collar. She hides a smile, walking and moving to sit on the opposite side of the café, where she would have a good view of him without it seeming obvious that she was staring. Her tote-purse drops into an empty seat, and she curls up on the bench that rested against a window. She pulls out her silver laptop with a dark grey case on it, the logo shining through the contrasting shade, a notebook follows, and she sets up the table accordingly as she shifts out of her jacket. “Witches brew and vegan muffin!” the barista says happily as she bustles over, setting the mug and the plate onto the table. “Thank you” The girl says gently, pulling out her headphones from her bag. “No problem, just call if you need anything” She says with a smile, moving and coming over to Armitage “Need a refill?” “Yes” Armitage says, glancing up from his laptop “Hold the espresso” “Alrighty!” She grins, grabbing his empty mug and taking it behind the bar. His eyes trail to the girl once more. He was clearly older than her, she couldn’t be more than her early twenties, and judging from the textbook she had on the table, she was a local university student. He took more of her in, her bangs swept to the side so she could see. She wore no makeup, nothing to accentuate her high cheekbones and her strong jawline. Her nose curving slightly at the tip. Her lips were a gentle pink, not offset from the tone of her skin. From the front, he could see her collarbones and clavicle protruding under her skin. He doesn’t notice that she’s looked up from her laptop, holding her tea in his hand as he admires her. The shy smile she gives him flusters him for the quickest of moments. He doesn’t return the smile, but simply nods in response. ~ For months, their only interactions were the smiles and nods they gave each other when they first arrive in the café. They were aware of each other’s presence, and often found comfort and solace in each other’s company. Each visit she made to the café, he was there. She learned more about him each time as well. With the warmer months came him with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. She always became captivated by the tattoos that covered his pale skin. The more she came in, Armitage found himself using her as a muse. He kept finding little bits of her within the characters he wrote through his editing. Be it looks, or mannerisms he had noticed from her, every time he reread his chapters, she jumped out at him. His family had never been supportive of his writing. He was born out of wedlock, though no one, not even him, could consider himself a love child of anyone. Maybe if he had grown up with his mother, he would have known love or kindness in his life. But he had not once met his biological mother. His father and his wife were soulmates. They had been together since childhood, but even so, his father had been unfaithful to the woman he was supposed to be with for his lifetime. Armitage had known these facts for his entire life. His stepmother would never let him live it down that he was a child born out of adultery. His father had trained him as a child to be a military brat. His father wanted him to pay for being born by bringing some form of redemption to the Hux name by becoming a high-ranking general in the military. His father was nothing but disappointed when Armitage announced that he was going to become an author. His father was still disappointed in his only child even after the paychecks and the royalty cheques came in. Not to mention when Armitage started to cover his skin in permeant and intricate artwork. Brendol Hux found a further hatred for his son. Maybe more than his wife felt for the child that looked identical to his father. Armitage’s fingers tapped the keys on his laptop, the pale fingers being the only part of his hands that didn’t have black ink on them. He was working on the newest chapter to one of his horror novels, trying to get a rough draft out by his deadline the upcoming Friday. His fingers still when a small figure approaches his table. He glances up from the screen for the first time in hours, the small ethereal beauty standing in front of him with a timid smile, her hand clutched tightly around the strap of her backpack. His eyebrow quirks, and he notices the blush that spreads over her nose and her cheeks. “hello” She says timidly, clenching her fingers around her strap in an attempt to cool her nerves. “Hello” He replies softly, his voice surrounding her like a warm, comforting hug, “May I sit?” She asks, pointing to the empty chair across from him. “Do you not wish to sit in your own spot?” Armitage asks, referencing her usual seat on the other side of the room. “I was thinking we could talk” She replies. “Now why would we do that?” He asks her, his fingers pulling away from the keys before wrapping them around the handle of his coffee mug. “Because I’ve run out of reasons for us not to” She tells him. He lets out a chuckle, taking a sip from his overly bitter coffee “Have a seat” She tries not to rush her movements, pulling out the seat and setting her bag against the table stand as she moves to sit on the comfortable chair. She pulls her knees up, her heels resting on the edge of the seat, reaching under and grabbing the laptop from her bag. “I’m [name]” She says as she opens the laptop, quickly typing in her password with ease. “Armitage” He replies quickly, looking back down to his screen, trying to pretend like he’s not too interested in her being so close to him. They fall into silence, nothing but the sounds of their fingers on their keyboards being heard from their table. There were others milling around in the café, ordering their drinks before leaving through the front door. “Refills?” The barista who they had learned to be Alicia asked. “Yes please” She says gently, looking up and giving the woman a smile. “Yes” Armitage says curtly, not looking up from the screen. Alicia nods, grabbing the mugs and walking away with a pep in her step. When she comes back, she sets the steaming mugs back down onto the table, along with two muffins on a plate. “Muffins on the house” Alicia tells them before leaving and heading back behind the counter. More silence filled the air between them, and she starts to wonder if maybe it was a mistake to join him at the table. “Have you met them?” Armitage asks suddenly. She looks up, eyes widening. Almost as if she was a dear in the headlights. “What?” “What is a very impolite way of asking ‘pardon’” He tells her “I asked if you’ve met them, your soulmate.” She looks down to her wrist, seeing the intricate lace design on her wrist. She looks back up to Armitage. “I don’t know” She tells him honestly “If I have, they haven’t made themselves known to me” Armitage nods, grabbing his coffee and sipping at it. “What about you?” She asks, nodding to his tattoos. “Have you met yours?” “I don’t have one” He tells her after a moment of thinking “I don’t have a tattoo, or a soulmate” “That sucks” “I wouldn’t say so.” Armitage says, shrugging his slender shoulders “It gives me options” “Options are limited when you may be the only one without a true soulmate” She tells him, leaning forward on her forearms that she rested on the table. “Better to have limited options than to be stuck with someone who doesn’t love you” He says simply, and she knew to drop the subject.  There was a bite to his words that she knew would be dangerous to carry on with that certain line of questioning. “When did you get your first tattoo?” She asks him, eyeing his covered arms. “When I was twenty” He says, looking up at her once more. “The first one was the compass rose on my shoulder” “Does it have a meaning?” She asks, closing her laptop slightly, a small smile on her lips. “I was lost when I was younger” He tells her “I was alone, I got it to remind me that there’s a direct route to where I need to be. None of the other ones really have a meaning.” She nods, pulling up the sleeve of her sweater to right above her elbow, showing off the constellation and the cursive lettering. “I got this on my eighteenth birthday” She says, pointing at the quote. “I added the quote last year” “Did you get it done locally?” Armitage asks her, closing his own laptop. “The constellation, no. I got it done when I was in London for my high school grad trip.” She tells him “The quote I got done a few blocks from here when I started University” “I got mine done all over” He tells her “I get one on each book tour I go on. My favorite artist is out in Berlin” “You’re an author?” She asks, eyes widening again “anything I would know?” “I have eight novels on the New York times best sellers list” He tells her with a shrug “I have four others that didn’t quite make it onto the list” “What genre do you write?” She asks, finding the topic that they could truly lose themselves in. “Horror, I have a few mystery novels on my list” He chuckles, rubbing his hand over his face and then through his hair “I have one romance novel published as well, but it’s the least popular.” “Are you bad at writing romance?” She asks him. “Yeah” He laughs “It was my first novel that was published. No one’s first published is their best. It’s why so many authors don’t release a second.” “They get discouraged by bad reviews?” She asks, tilting her head. “Yes” He nods. “How did you get past it?” “I changed genres” He shrugs “I found something I was good at” “Do you like Stephen King?” “You can’t be a horror novelist and not own a Stephen King novel” “I didn’t ask if you owned one of his books, I asked if you liked his writing” “It’s selective.” Armitage says, “I enjoy some of his single novels, and the dark tower series, though I’m not the biggest fan of his short stories” “I liked the Dark Tower Series” She tells him, sipping at her tea “Though I struggled through the first book. I can’t tell you how many times I started and restarted it before I was finally able to get past the first half” “You read horror?” He asks, eyebrow quirked. “Certain authors” She says, “Certain books” ~ After their first conversation, they would meet up at the café to work together. They often worked around her class schedule, and more often than not, he would be her “peer editor” for her assignments. She was an amazing writer, for essays at least. There was never much that he would make her edit. Just a few grammatical errors he’d occasionally help her with, or he’d be her human thesaurus. She adored his company, and she’s not quite sure when it happened, but she moved her seat once more. She ended up curled up beside him, resting against his side while they both typed away at their keyboards. There was a comfortable arrangement between them. They weren’t lovers, though they weren’t just friends. Armitage isn’t quite sure how the arrangement came to be. Her allowing him to hold her while they drink their daily coffee. “When’s your deadline?” She asks him, looking up to him from under her lashes. “Monday” He tells her. “Is everything stressful on a Monday for you?” She giggles. He gives her a crooked grin. “It seems like it, doesn’t it?” “Do you think you’ll get it done?” She asks him, adjusting her position on the small bench. “I think so” He nods, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, typing away with his left hand. ~ The Monday comes, and she’s running late to the coffee shop. Her class had run late, and she was walking briskly down the street, hoping to catch her bus before it departed. She didn’t want to wait another hour for it to come back around. She accidentally steps in a puddle, grumbling when her entire foot up to her ankle becomes soaked. She jogs down the street, holding onto the strap of her bag. She jumps onto the bus, showing the bus pass to the driver before swinging around one of the poles and sitting down on an empty seat. “Wet day out there, ain’t it?” An older woman from beside her asks. “Yes ma’am” She says, nodding. She shoves her headphone into her ear, settling down and pulling a book out of her bag. It was one of Armitage’s early mystery novels. She wasn’t far into it, but she was thoroughly enjoying his writing. She had bought it, since he didn’t want her reading his earlier works. She had to sneak and buy it quietly without his knowledge. After the twenty-minute bus ride, she presses the button, signalling that it was her stop. The bus squealed to a halt, and she stands up. Muttering a quick goodbye to the lady beside her and shoving the book into her bag as she hops off the bus. Trying to avoid another puddle – not that it would matter. Her foot was already soaked. She moves quickly down the two blocks, one right turn and another before she opens the door to the café, her hair dripping wet. Armitage looks up, chuckling at her appearance. He stands from the bench, taking her bag from her. “I ordered you your tea” He tells her, smiling. “Sorry I’m late” She mutters, leaning against him as his arm wraps around her. “I could have come to get you” “I didn’t know you had a car” “I do” “I’ll keep that in mind” “What made you late?” “Class ran longer than expected” She tells him, curling up against him on the bench when he sits down. “Did you make your deadline?” “I did” He tells her with a smile. She lets out a small squeal, moving to her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, leaning in and placing a kiss against his cheek. Armitage closes his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine how her lips would feel against his own. When she pulls away, he looks at her. She was beautiful, even in the dim lighting of the café and the darkness of the rain outside. She was glowing. He doesn’t say anything as she takes her mug and blows at the tea, trying to cool it a little bit so she could drink it. “Are you happy with the novel?” she asks him, sipping at the slowly cooling liquid. “As happy as I can be.” He nods, leaning back and stretching out his legs, taking his own half empty mug and slowly nursing the last few sips. “What does that mean?” She asks, brows furrowing. “Writing creatively with such a deadline puts a toll on anyone” He says quietly “It’s the one thing about being a published author with a writing deal. There’s so many deadlines that I can’t flush out stories or characters as much as I want to.” “Oh” she says, eyes dropping. Armitage nods, leaning closer to her “Want to know my favorite part?” She looks up at him, eyes meeting his “What?” “You” was all he said before he leaned in, his lips pressing to the corner of her mouth, trailing to the side before they were flushed against hers. She lets out a mix between a moan and a ‘oh’ as she presses against him, feeling his arm wrap around her. She would never be able to describe the kiss, and he would never be able to write it out on paper. There were no definitions, no words for what he was experiencing. “Oh” she whispers, her forehead resting against his jaw. Her eyes closed as she revelled in the moment. “yeah” Armitage says lamely, pulling her closer. “I liked that” She tells him, looking up at him with the smallest of smiles. “I can do better” He replies, his lips tilting up into a smirk. “Wanna test it out?” She asks, giggling as she leans in once more to capture his lips. ~ As her school year began to close, she spent more time in Armitage’s apartment. Often resting on his couch or sprawled out on his bed. He always made sure school was her first priority, sex would always be there, but she needed to get her work done. “You sound like my father” She’d always tell him. “I’m old enough to be him” He’d always respond. He wasn’t actually old enough to be her father. There was an age difference between them, yes. But Armitage liked to make it over dramatic, acting as if he were a fifty-year-old rather than a thirty-two year old. But, as her semester ended and the summer began, there was nothing stopping them from being in his bed at all times of the day. Today was no different. Armitage was sprawled out along the bed, leaning against the wall with a book in his hand. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. She was curled up into his side, her fingers following the lines of the tattoos on his chest. He arches for a moment, stretching his long limbs out. He always loved the feeling of her nails against his skin, be it gentle like she was now, or when she dug them into the skin of his back and sides. She could never get enough of his tattoos. She could never get more than the two she currently haves. But she loved to admire the artwork that Armitage had decorated himself with. As her fingers move, she examines his tattoos. Stilling on his inner bicep when the black lines become a similar design. The swirls and the hard edges become so familiar that she forces herself to look down at her wrist, seeing it’s match on her own skin. Soulmates. But was it possible? Each soulmate tattoo was unique to the pair. But how could Armitage have the same one as hers? He said that he didn’t have a soulmate tattoo. She opens her mouth, Armitage looking over to her, eyebrow quirked as he waited for what she would say. Nothing comes from her lips, and she thinks better than to bring the subject up. She knew how much he hated the concept of soulmates. How much he truly believed that soulmates weren’t real, that no one, not even fate itself, could determine who would love who. She moves, resting on her knees as she leans towards him, pressing her lips against his in an attempt to distract herself, and celebrate, him being her soulmate. She wouldn’t want in any other way, but knowing Armitage, he would break off whatever their relationship was because he was against the system and didn’t want the fates to prove him wrong. Armitage lets out a groan, closing his book slowly and setting it on the table beside the bed. “What’s this for?” He asks, running his fingers through her hair as he adjusts his seated position. “I just love you” She whispers to him, resting her eyes as she leans in and kisses him once more. “I know” He tells her, holding the back of her head to keep her still. He never told her that he loved her. Although they both knew that he loved her more than anything. But his upbringing, he was left scared to enjoy his emotions, terrified that he one day may become exactly like his father. She smiles, letting out a giggle as she pushes him down onto the bed. Her leg swinging around so her knee could rest on the other side of his legs. She peppers kisses along his jaw, her fingers running through the perfectly neat hair that he always kept immaculate and in perfect order. “Do you think you’ll ever find them?” He asks softly, his hands trailing up and down her sides. “You’re soulmate I mean” “I don’t know” She tells him. “Not everyone finds their soulmate.” “If you did find them, would you go with them?” His eyes held… sadness? Worry? “I don’t know” She repeats, shrugging. “Would you rather have your spouse have the title of soulmate? Or would you ever settle for someone who doesn’t have a soulmate?” He asks her, he seemed like he was trying to ease his mind. “I don’t know” She repeats once more. “All I know is that, right now, I love you.” “You could learn to love your soulmate” He whispers, leaning back against the wall again. “I’m sure I could” She shrugs “But why would I want to love them when I love you?” “They could be attractive” “You’re attractive” “They could be smart” “You’re smart” “They could be everything you want” “You’re everything I want” He holds her eyes, leaning in and kissing her once more. She lets out a small whine, arching herself in towards him. He lets out a chuckle, pushing his hands under the loose shirt she wore. He tosses it away when it’s off of her, her hair falling once more around her shoulders. He could never get enough of her body. The slender figure and the arch of her back, the soft skin of her breasts protruding towards him. His hand trails up her side, a chuckle escaping his lips as he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She didn’t get much pleasure from breast play, so he often kept it to a minimum. The erect buds often gave him amusement though, and she liked his touch in general. Anytime he touched her, she felt like the most beautiful woman alive. He always took his time with his foreplay. He never wanted to rush it with her. “Tij” she whispers, leaning into his touch. he lets out a chuckle, his spare hand grabbing her bum and pulling her flushed against him, the tent in his boxers greeting her heat. ~ She never told him that they were soulmates, and maybe it was a good thing. They didn’t last more than three years when they had the dreaded conversation. “I think we should end this” He tells her, sitting in their favorite coffee shop. She doesn’t respond, but her hands still while holding the mug, halfway to her lips. “We’ve had a good run” He whispers, holding his coffee in his hands, spinning the mug so the dark liquid in it swirled along the walls of its confines. “We have” She nods, her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was a stranger speaking for her. “I don’t want to ruin what we’ve had” He says “But you have so much life ahead of you to be dealing with an aging writer” “I don’t know what to say” She says quietly, searching his face. “Is this why you’ve been so distant this week?” “Yes” He nods “I want you to go out and explore, find your soulmate” Even while he was breaking her heart with his words, she couldn’t tell him that they were soulmates. That they were the ones destined for each other. But she would never want to go against what Armitage truly wanted. “I understand” She tells him, setting her mug down and standing from her seat. “I guess it’s a good thing I never broke my apartment’s rent.” “I guess so” He responds, not looking up at her. She turns, walking out of the café, knowing she may never return to the building that had given her so much comfort in her university years. ~ She had set up the appointment the day after Armitage had broken up with her. She had never been one to cry over boys. She had made it a rule to herself when she started high school that she would never give a boy the power to break her, to invoke tears from her. She never strayed from that promise. It was a Tuesday when she walked into the heavily art decorated shop. “Hey!” A tattooed man says from behind the counter “You my 2:30?” “Yes” She tells him, nodding. “Come on back and I��ll show you what I have for you” He says with a smile “If you’ve forgotten, I’m Jamie” “Cool” She says, following him to the small cubby area that held a chair. She sits down, Jamie twirling on an office chair. “So we’re going to coverup the old tattoo under the mountain, sound good?” Jamie asks. “yes, thank you” She says with a smile. ~ She walked out of the shop, the plastic wrap surrounding her wrist, a slip of paper with Jamie’s cell phone number written on it.

[baesketballers]

iv-b. i knew i loved you then

but you’d never know

ft. midorima shintarou

This is the thing that made me want to rip my hair off my head because of my PC randomly blue-screening me. To those who responded to the rant, thank you for your understanding!

@ourneverendingpossibilities​ it’s nice that you have such a positive outlook in life!! I was so mad when it happened, but since it’s complete now I guess everything’s okay ヽ(＊>∇<)ﾉ 

@squirrelsass13​ thanks for the encouragement! I rarely ever write on Word (it transfers weirdly when I copy and paste the text on tumblr) so I was typing straightaway on my Drafts... I click on “Save Draft” every paragraph now lol

Faint connections to the previous installation of Cantabile

Fem!Reader. Semi-NSFW. Long (2728 words).

I’m sorry if this sucks but... yeah.

Why do you play?

Isn’t being a doctor busy enough for you?

I’d ask you to tutor my son if you weren’t so busy!

Wow, you’re very ambitious. 

Those are words spoken by housewives, small medium enterprise owners, and white-collar workers. Midorima doesn’t think that they’re somehow lower than him in any aspect—sure, they earnings are technically lesser than his, but how does that define someone as a person? He meets these people everywhere, the people that make up his community, his society: at the clinic, in parties, at the grocery store... It’s no secret that he’s seen as an outstanding person by these people. 

Twenty-seven, has the letters “M.D.” behind his name, helps people get over all sorts of sicknesses from light ones like a common cold to not-so-light ones like diabetes, plays piano as a hobby.

It’s not really surprising to the people who ask him “what do you do in your free time?” because, you know, doctors. They’re classy and smart and all. Sure they can play the piano—he can probably play the violin, too.

But you can see their eyes significantly widen when they know he has a diploma in piano, certified by the Associated Board of Royal Schools of Music. Where is that name from? The United Kingdom. Why did you take it?

He always tells them it was just for fun, but a small voice inside him knows the truth: somewhere deep in his heart, he wanted to be a pianist.

His first words to you are: “It’s a common cold.”

“That much I can see, Doctor,” you deadpan, holding a tissue against your runny nose. He sighs. 

Midorima is used to handling all sorts of patients: naggy, rude, stubborn people... he’s seen them all in the past four years of his practice. Today, however, it’s only after lunchtime and he already wants to go home already. Maybe attending Akashi’s party last night isn’t really a great idea. Sure, it’s not a DJ-inviting or dance floor grinding kind of party, so he’s not physically tired—he’s tired from all the socializing with fake people. “Meet new people,” was Akashi’s reasoning for inviting the doctor, and of course Midorima did, but none of them were enjoyable.

To be precise, he can’t tell if they’re really enjoyable or not through layers of faux talk. Akashi texted him earlier, expressing his regrets that it was somewhat an unpleasant experience for Midorima. He also wrote “but I won’t stop inviting you to these social events—I understand how you think they’re superficial, but I can guarantee you that they genuinely enjoyed your piano very much.”

Well, if there’s one thing Midorima likes about those parties, it’s that he’s presented the opportunity to play.

“As a doctor, I have to announce the diagnosis to you, don’t I?” He replies, scribbling a pen on his prescription pad. “I’m prescribing you to these basic medications, but since your cold isn’t a serious one—yet—I highly recommend that you consume home remedies before resorting to these medicines.”

“M-hmm.”

“Turmeric tea, ginger tea, a mixture of lemon, cinnamon, and honey.”

“Got it.”

“Control your diet; you don’t want to eat food that’s going to worsen your cough.”

A sound of ripping paper. He hands the slip to you.

“You don’t remember me do you?”

That takes Midorima by surprise.

“Have we met before?” He asks warily as you take the prescription paper from his hand and fold it, putting it inside your handbag. Your lips form a small smile, and Midorima eyebrows furrows.

“You sang last night, didn’t you.” It sounds like a question, but his tone makes it clear that it’s rhetorical. He knows for sure that it was you who was dragged by one of your acquaintances that claimed you to be the best singer in a ten-mile radius—the expression itself is a horrible exaggeration, but when Midorima hears you sing, he has to admit that you do have an exceptionally lovely voice.

His first words to you turns out to be “what key?” instead of an illness announcement because he was the pianist accompanying you.

“You look different, Ms. Fly Me To The Moon,” he says aloofly, writing something on a document. You chuckle at the nickname, not knowing that the stoic doctor-slash pianist has the capacity to be somewhat playful, and towards the opposite sex, nonetheless. Midorima can only admire how melodious your laugh is, even when your voice is nasally from the cold. 

“At least you remember what I sang.”

“Like I said, you look different,” he repeats. You were clad in an elegant evening gown for the party last night, and although Midorima doesn’t have the eye to identify expensive clothing brands and such, he is able to appreciate how attractive you looked in the attire. Your hair was done simply in a style that matches your dress, and among the slight make-up you applied, he notices the suppleness of your colored lips first. 

The person sitting in front of him doesn’t carry the glamour of the party—you’re slightly pale, dressed humbly in a sweater and jeans—but the lack of make-up, fancy hairdo and dress doesn’t affect how beautiful you look, in his opinion. Your eyes still glows the same captivating way as he witnessed last night.

“Yes, well,” you sigh with a smile as you stand up, “you better engrave how I look last night deep in your memory, doctor, because I’m never going to attend one of those high-end social events ever again.” The first part was sarcastically said, but Midorima finds himself doing as you told, picturing the details of your gown and hearing your singing voice echo in his mind. Being a quite introvert doesn’t mean he’s immune to any of your charms.

“Shame,” he finds himself saying. You smirk, pausing right before you walk out the door.

“What, not being able to see me all dressed up again?” Ten years ago, Midorima would’ve easily flushed red at the teasing remark. He’s way past that now, and instead of reacting like the teenage boy he was, he looks straight into your eyes when he says:

“I was talking about how it’s a shame that I won’t hear you sing again, but that too.”

Two months later what you said proves to be a blatant lie. You’re standing beside Midorima, arms hooked with his, a casual sign that the two of you are attending together, presumably as a romantic couple. This time it isn’t Akashi’s, but a business partner of his—he nevertheless invited Midorima along to provide him the audience for his piano, and regarding yourself... well, you’re accompanying the pianist. It’s not like you’re crashing this party or anything.

It’s only your third “date” with the man, so to have the opportunity to see him up-close in a formal setting that requires guests to dress up is exhilarating, to say the least. Midorima’s handsome enough in his casual attire—having to stand next to him wearing a nicely tailored, dark-colored suit while having to keep your hands to yourself is almost some sort of punishment. And the collar button of his shirt! He always buttons his shirt all the way up and wears a tie to complement the outfit, but for some unknown reason he’s left it open this time and disregarded the tie.

If you didn’t know any better, he’s trying to tease you. 

“It’s rare to find you with someone by your arm, Midorima-kun.”

“Akashi,” Midorima acknowledges the voice. You turn to meet the redhead face to face, smiling softly.

“Good evening, Akashi-san.”

“Hello, _________. Good to see you,” he replies smoothly, as you reply in a similar manner. “Even more surprising finding out that you’re with him tonight. Are you two...?”

The two of you exchange looks as if telepathically deciding who should answer, and turns out you are. 

“Sort of,” you say, and the hint of mischief in your smile cannot be missed by even the most oblivious person in the room. Akashi surely isn’t one, but thankfully he doesn’t push you further.

“It’s a long story,” Midorima chips in, as if his relationship with you bloomed out of a blackmail kind of situation of some sorts. You chuckle, and so does Akashi —the latter is gracious enough to show the two of you to where the piano is.

“What are we?”

You are in his arms, as naked as he is, leaning your face against his chest and feeling the beat of his heart when you ask the question. It’s a summer night, and the sheets are loosely resting on your waist, the two of you too hot and sweaty from your previous activity to pull it all the way up to your neck. One of his hands is drawing soft circles with his thumb on your bare skin, while the other one that is untaped (very uncharacteristic of him, but it’s a sign of a good night) brush your hair in long, loving strokes.

He doesn’t respond. You snuggle closer into his chest, relishing the sensation of his nakedness against yours while you think of all the times you’ve spent with him. That one time you had lunch together, those meaningless parties you go to just so you can watch him play and he can hear you sing, the nights you stay together at his place. You’ve spent at least a hundred hours with him, though it doesn’t feel long or dragged—those hours are cherished and enjoyed to the fullest, arguments (petty or not) included.

But it’s his reserved nature that makes you feel insecure sometimes. Tonight is one of those nights.

You move up so that your face is right in front of his because you want to look at him in the eyes. He’s beautiful, the viridian undisturbed by the lenses of his glasses—the eyewear is carefully situated on the nightstand before all this began. You’re sure he can see you clearly from this proximity, your nose against his, your hand caressing his cheek. His hands drift down from the crown of your head to your chest, cupping your breast and playing with a nipple as his eyes grow half-lidded.

Midorima is the one to lean in first, engaging you in a chaste kiss, a perfect juxtaposition what with his hand groping your chest and the other slowly travelling down to your ass, stroking every inch of skin possible. You are the one to pull away, arms around his neck and eyes clouded with lust, thanks to the things he’s doing to your body.

“Do you love me?” The question comes out as a whisper.

“I’ll show you how much,” he answers in a heartbeat before he kisses you again, bringing your body under his. 

He never fails to convince you.

The afternoon sunrays shining through the high glass windows of the music hall are almost blinding, considering how dark it was just a few moments ago in the auditorium. You’re by Midorima’s side as per usual, looking around nervously with a bouquet of daisies and orchids in your arms. Your husband seems to be scanning the area like you are, and when you hear a shrill yell of a young child you know it’s who you’re looking for.

“Mama! Papa!”

The little girl, currently nine years old, runs towards the two of you with two or three large bouquets in her arms, the majority of her face covered by flowers. You laugh at the sight, crouching to hug her tightly once she reaches. Noises of plastic being scrunched can bother you less, as you feel your daughter burying her face against your chest. She pulls away to immediately look up at his father with bright eyes.

“Papa, how did I do?!”

“You did good, nanodayo,” he answers, a faint smile on his face as he fixes his glasses, “although there’s room for improvement in terms of arpeggiation—”

You gasp exaggeratedly, drowning the remaining of Midorima’s sentence. 

“Shiina! Papa says you did a good job! Do you know what that means??”

“No!” She replies, confused but ecstatic.

“I promised you we can go have dinner wherever you want if Papa praises you,” you reply, and the confused expression on her face melts into real unabashed excitement.

“Mama, are you serious!?” Shiina’s voice has become high-pitched from the bubbling enthusiasm that seems to have taken over her whole small body. “We can go anywhere I want!?”

“Yep,” you nod for further affirmation. “Papa has agreed on this, too,” this time you look over at Midorima, only to be amused to find the deadpan expression on his face. You give him a wink, and Midorima, witnessing his own daughter having such a great time just because you told her she can eat whatever she wants for dinner, can’t help but melt a little.

“Maji! I want Maji!”

“Sure, we’ll go to Maji tonight,” you say accommodatingly. Midorima can only smile down at the girl when she looks up at him, a face-splitting grin on her face. Even though her physical attributes are definitely inherited from him, she obviously takes after you in terms personality.

“And then I want to have ice cream after dinner! Can I, Papa? Let’s go home so I can prepare for dinner!!”

“You may, Shiina,” he sighs amusedly—what does a nine-year old kid want to do to ‘prepare for dinner’? “But before we go home you must meet Uncle Akashi first. He came to see you perform, you know.”

“Uncle Akashi is here!?” 

You chuckle. It’s a wonder how said man is viewed as intimidating and merciless among most adults dabbling in business, but is the opposite in the eyes of children. Shiina is almost obsessed with Akashi, what with his gentlemanly behavior that reminds her of Prince Charming. Shiina once even told you that since she can’t marry Papa, maybe she’ll marry Uncle Akashi instead—you have yet to tell Akashi this, but you have a feeling he already knows.

Speak of the devil, the redhead can be seen from twenty feet away thanks to his hair color, maneuvering amongst the crowd to approach your family. Shiina’s acting very much like an excited puppy, and you wonder if it’s immoral to compare the behavior of your human child to an animal (despite said animal being unbelievably cute as well), but that doesn’t matter anymore because Shiina is already in Akashi’s arms as he lifts her up in the air, chuckling amusedly.

Midorima looks at the scene with mild jealousy in his eyes—not that his eyes aren’t green in the first place.

“Mama?”

The usually animated voice of your daughter is now tired and soft as you tuck her in. She must’ve been exhausted after the performance.

“Yes, honey?”

“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” This piques your interest a little, because she’s stopped asking for stories before bed for almost a year now.

“Sure. What would you like to hear?” 

“The other day... Mai-chan and Reika-chan were talking about how their parents met and fell in love,” she says shyly, hiding her face behind a beloved doll. “Can you please tell me how you and Papa met, Mama? You’ve never told me that story before.”

You chuckle.

“You’re gonna have to ask Papa for that, honey. It’s a long story anyways, and you’re tired. Best go to sleep soon.”

“Okay...” Shiina says, and it’s not hard to pick up the disappointment in her voice.

“Goodnight honey,” you kiss her cheek before turning off the lights.

“’Night, Mama.”

Truth be told, there is no ‘long story’. Midorima just called you one day to ask you out for coffee with a tinge of nervousness in his voice that you can spot even from the other side of the line. You ended up scheduling a lunch instead, and if Shiina asks him to tell her how you fell in love with each other, he’ll have no explanation except of how breathtakingly beautiful you look with sunshine on your skin and a smile on your face as you talk about music and food and the stars. 

He will ask Shiina to keep it a secret from you, of course, because if you know he’s been in love with you for that long, he knows you’re never going to let it go.