seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Sweden
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from United States
Title: Stay
Pairing: Ezra x f!reader, Ezra x you (reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)
Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6
Summary: When you've almost given up waiting fo him, a certain prospector returns to the Pug to call in a favor...
Full Fic: Ao3
☆ Chapter I
☆ Chapter II
☆ Chapter III
☆ Chapter IV
☆ Chapter V
☆ Chapter VI
🐦
A Wonderful Prospect
Prompt #490:
“I would appreciate it, if you would kiss me right now.”
Day One of the Follower Party!
Pairing: Ezra x GN!reader
Word Count: 712
Warnings: 18+ Mentions of toxic atmosphere, smooching, pining, alluding to masturbation(none happens), FLUFF
A/N: Starting Day One off with some soft!Ezra! All prompts from @creativepromptsforwriting Top Ten!
Masterlist
As always, let me know if you want to be tagged!
You watched Ezra work the site, his deft hands nimble and quick, his brow creased in concentration, his shoulders bunched with the effort. You bit your lip and continued staring at his machinations. You had been with Ezra for many cycles, and while you had a comfortable companionship, you had begun to desire more from him.
His hands raking down your body, for one. That illustrious mouth working on your skin, for another. You knew, in your bones, that his plump lips skating across your most sensitive areas would be your undoing.
“Birdie?” Ezra’s lilt pulled you from your thoughts, and you felt your face warm as you realized he had been waiting for the solution.
“Sorry, Ez.” You mumbled, passing the bottle. He hummed in response, but you wondered if he would mention it when he wasn’t so dialed in.
The dig was successful, as it often was with Ezra. His skill seemed unmatched, but you were fairly new to prospecting. The Green had been as alluring as it was deadly. Growing up on an industrial planet had made you yearn for the seas of foliage that littered the poison moon. Even now, walking back to the tent, you were reminded of the danger the air imposed. From beneath your suit’s helmet, you watched the spores dance in the setting sunlight, knowing even a few seconds of that unfiltered air could kill you.
Ezra held the flap of the tent aside, and you turned on the scrubber. The partnership between you had bloomed easily, and the friendship had bubbled soon after. Ezra was easy to love, you admitted. He called himself a simple man, but you knew it was different than that. He wasn’t complicated, but he was far from simple.
You turned and let him unhook you, and you returned the favor. Removing the suit was your least favorite part of the day. Watching Ezra remove layers was almost too much for you. You had no escape from him in the tent. His smile, his smell, his laugh, all of it mingled and swirled and suffocated you in the close proximity. You couldn’t even risk masturbation, he was so close.
Night after night, you fell asleep to Ezra reading to you from different books, and every night you thought it would be your last because it would surely kill you. It hadn’t. Neither had you been hassled by marauders or mercs.
“Birdie, is there something on your mind?” Ezra asked as he tugged two Bit O’ Bars out of the box. He handed one to you as you considered what you should say. He fidgeted with his own bar before he continued.
“Well, there is something on my mind, dove. If you’ll receive it.” He murmured, seemingly nervous. You nodded, encouraging him on. “It’s just, you’ve become quite the distraction for me. I find myself longing to reach out to you. I would never try to make you uncomfortable, but it has been weighing on my mind considerably, as of late.” You huffed out a sigh of relief. Shock and joy mingled in your stomach and you lost your words.
“Birdie, please say something.” Ezra begged, his voice soft. You had no idea what your face must have looked like. He looked beautiful. The tent’s sparse light cast shadows across his face, and served to highlight the sharpness of his features. His dark eyes were searching, desperate. You resisted running your hand through his dark hair, resisted tugging on the birthmark that ran a white streak there. You flicked your eyes to his small crescent scar on his cheek. Every part of him set you alight, and he felt the same. You grinned, wolfishly, before you answered.
“I would appreciate it, if you would kiss me right now.” A smile broke across his concerned features, and he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. They were every bit as soft as you had imagined, but he wasn’t happy to simply press, he was hungry. He chased you when you pulled away to breath, and you laughed when he did so. It was refreshing to know he cared as much as you.
Suddenly, being stuck in a cramped tent with Ezra was the least torturous thing you could think of.
Title: Stay
Chapter: 1/6
Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader, Ezra x you (Reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)
Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6
Content: Situationship to romance, soft Ezra, intimacy, loss of limb (non-explicit), canon compliant
Summary: When you've almost given up waiting for him, a certain prospector returns to the Pug to call in a favor...
Ao3: complete fic
chapter II 》
Chapter I
Each night you scale the building, let yourself fall flat onto its roof of corrugated sheets, and stare skywards, eyes searching for the pale red dot that is Bakhroma. The targeted date of his return has come and passed, many cycles prior, and you've long since abandoned counting.
You will yourself to believe that he's somewhere out there and, very much like you, gazing into the endless night and searching for the star that marks your home.
It’s a nice thought. A consoling mirage. One that keeps you going with each new rise of daylight.
Deep down, however, you know it’s nonsense. It feels like he's gone. One way or another.
The more the surprise it is, when his shadow falls into your workspace, his somewhat warped but still familiar frame filling the space of your doorway. Your vagrant friend.
"Hey Patches," says Ezra, wearing a rare expression of guilt, thinly veiled by the forced smile plastered across weathered features, "I need to call in a favor."
*
That was three cycles prior. Now, Ezra is laying on your couch on his back. A damp rag obscures his closed eyes from your view and adds moisture to his slicked back fringe. You're still baffled that you managed to get him there. In your stupor you nearly stumbled over a toolbox as he collapsed right into your workshop without further warning.
With the aid of his mysterious shadow - Cee, you are aware now - you had heaved him up the stairs, cleared away the clutter, and maneuvered his limp body onto the cushioned sofa.
He hasn't moved much since. Neither has the silent teenage girl, that guards his sleeping form like a gargoyle, perching on a chair beside his blanket-covered feet. She isn't much of a talker, that much you know. She answers when spoken to, clipped and vaguely, but otherwise keeps to herself.
Most of the time, her nose is buried into a tiny notebook, in which she furiously scribbles away. You’re curious about her writing, but if you asked, you're certain her reply would leave you none the wiser. If she even offered one at all. She radiates a fierce wariness towards you that speaks of horrid encounters and a stormy past. A kid of the Frontiers, you infer. Poor thing.
Only occasionally she ditches her book to raise her gaze. At a twitch of Ezra's body or a quiet murmur. Any sign of consciousness draws her attention - just for her to drop back into the chair dejected at each false alarm. He doesn’t wake. Not properly, at any rate.
By now you've helped him to the bathroom twice, but even then, he'd run on autopilot, disconcertingly silent and focused on each shaky step ahead. It scares you, his eerie and unfamiliar silence, and more than once, you've questioned if this is your fever dream, rather than his - wishing him back desperate enough to conjure up the vexing scenario you find yourself in. A glimmer of hope, though tightly wrapped in layers woven from threads of your nightmares.
But it’s not. He’s here, in your home, after having vanished on you for seasons. As surreal as it appears.
"He's gonna be okay... right?"
It takes you a second to register the question's essence, surprised by Cee's first direct approach, ensuing hours of nearly wordless co-existence. She's watching you from her spot by the couch and there's fatigue in her eyes. And concern.
You lay down your work, tools neatly aligned on an otherwise cluttered desktop, and leave it behind to step closer to her and your sleeping friend. Wiping both hands on your overall, you crouch beside Ezra's body, gaze grazing his bandaged shoulder. It still rattles you, the sight of his missing limb, but the initial panicked lurch of your stomach has long since settled. He's still breathing.
Given you had been convinced you'd never see him, never hear his winding speech and endearing drawl again, you're nothing but grateful for his presence.
"I don't know," you answer and the honesty stings as the words leave your mouth.
You don't dare glance at the girl, guessing it scares her just as much.
Reaching out, you tug the rag away from Ezra’s forehead and gently wipe the dampness off his skin. He's sweating, still running a searing fever. But you try to convince yourself he's gained some color to his cheeks. A hint of life. It's a good sign, right? That he's no longer pale as death herself.
"I choose to believe he's going to be alright," you add as you brush a few stray strands of dark hair from his forehead, briefly stroking the odd patch of bright blonde with your thumb. It no longer stands out lonely against the mass of dark hair. There's a hint of grey smattered along both sides of his temples. For now, it remains hidden, swallowed by the mass of dark locks, only visible up close. A detail you'll cherish. One that you might reserve for the occasional banter that you promise yourself for the future. He will be alright; you again assure yourself.
Once more you rinse the towel in a bowl of cold water, wring it out and replace it on his brow.
"Hmm," says Cee.
Then silence falls again.
*
Time drags, but you're occupied enough to get through the cycle. Of course, there's taking care of Ezra. Cee has opened up enough to you, to agree on taking turns. When its yours, you take her place and watch, dutifully, over your shared patient and friend. At first, she rarely leaves the room, sticks around to observe quietly. Makes sure you can be trusted.
But with each passing rotation of your shared watch, she slowly begins to use her time off more easily. By this time, she's taken a shower. Even left the flat to do some exploring all by herself. You’re in no place to order her around or confine her to your living space. So, you leave her be.
She appears to value the respect you show for her privacy, rewards you with a few more words, more detail on her person. You still know next to nothing about her encounter with Ezra or how she came to be his travel companion.
But you learned that she trusts him. That she cares for his wellbeing. As he does care for hers.
You feel like there's something she tries to repay. Some unspoken debt. But again, you don't pry.
When it’s her turn, you work. You've closed the repair shop downstairs soon after your unexpected visitor had fallen right through your door, quite literally. But a pile of previous orders still remains to be handled. You've relocated your workspace, or at least most of it, into your already cramped up living quarters.
With Cee around for help it’s not strictly necessary, you know that. But it calms your nerves and helps your concentration to be within the same four walls as your fever-stricken friend.
Besides, there's some tasks, that Cee rather hands off to you, as long as you're available. She changes bandages, offers him water from drenched towels, swaps and airs the blankets... but trips to the bathroom or administering medication are your 'field of expertise'. She calls you, you step in. It’s a silent agreement.
You tighten a fickle screw inside an ankle joint, as you hear your name for the third time since morning. Ready to abandon your work, you turn, but it’s not your help that Cee seeks, but conversation.
"For how long have you known him?"
Surprised by her unexpectedly personal question, you hum in thought and return to your work as you sort through memories.
"A decade? A bit longer, probably."
She nods in acknowledgement and seems to search for something to say, but remains silent, uncertain. You pick up the hint - or maybe it’s just your own desire to banish the lingering quiet.
"We met on my first job. Had no shop yet, was out there in the void as a mechanic for hire. Little older than you are now. About 19, I think?"
The memories come flooding in. Of endless freighter travels, empty pockets and wrong crowds.
"He kinda saved me. Fringelings don't exactly care much for anyone but themselves. Fledgelings 're easy prey. I had no idea what to expect and a tad too much confidence.”
You halt your story to solder a fiddly spot. Tongue between your teeth, you manage to get the unruly wire back into place. Satisfied, you speak on.
“Ez already had some reputation, back then. Was a bit longer around than me. Don't know if it was sheer coincidence or pity, but he picked the right time and place to step in and chew my ear off. Shooed an awfully nasty guy away with it."
From the corner of your eye you catch the girl scowl and grimace back to her in empathy. Her reaction speaks volumes.
"I stuck with him, after that,” you continue, “Let him show me the ropes and listened in return. We owe each other a lot. Kinda lost count who's turn it actually is to call in a favor. Not that I could ever turn him down."
That sparks a smirk and the tiniest bit of relieve rolls over you. To see anything else but a frown on Cee’s youthful face is progress. At least in means of trust and communication. Loosely you nod in your mutual friend's direction.
"He's a scoundrel, that one, I'm sure you know as much. But there's lots of good inside. Just have to dig a little."
"Oh, how it soothes my soul to hear you praisin’ me so very nicely. Keep goin'."
The hoarse murmur startles you both. Within the fraction of a tick, you're on your feet and beside the couch. So is Cee.
Its sole occupant cracks one weary eye open and the twitch of a wicked smile flutters across his face.
Your eyes sting, as you take him in. Still sweaty and flushed with fever, he blinks languidly and licks across dry lips. The effort it takes him to stay conscious is apparent, manifests in the sluggish loll of his head.
You still grapple for something to say - a witty retort. An exclamation of relief. Anything. But nothing comes out.
"Thank Kevva, you're not dead," mutters Cee into your silence and earns a weak chuckle from Ezra. "'m not quite ready to turn up my toes to the daisies, little bird. Not after all the effort you put into savin' me."
You want to whack him, really. For scaring you. And her. For taking so long. For making you believe he is, in fact, dead. Instead, you laugh, short and relieved and watch him break into another smile. This one is warm and honest, if exhausted.
"You better stick to that, hear me?"
He frowns, gives a curt nod and tries to focus on you both, but fails. His eyes droop closed again and he breathes deep, remainders of dust rattling faintly.
"Promise," he murmurs. Then he's out cold again, face slack bar a hazy smile.
"Idiot," says Cee and she's definitely right about it.
Title: Stay
Chapter: 2/6
Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader, Ezra x you (Reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)
Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6
Content: Situationship to romance, soft Ezra, intimacy, loss of limb (non-explicit), canon compliant
Summary: When you've almost given up waiting for him, a certain prospector returns to the Pug to call in a favor...
Ao3: complete fic
《 chapter I chapter 3 》
Chapter II
Ezra gains awareness more often now, his wakeful moments brightening the room's atmosphere significantly. The second his voice fills the space, still rough and worn from its lack of use, the gloom of doubt retreats. He’s recovering, slowly but steadily, fighting off death’s cold and grabby fingers.
There’re secrets, between him and the girl, that you witness with each conversation, wordy or mute, that happens between the two. You wonder what has prolapsed out there, in the Green, to bind such and unlikely duo. Neither Cee nor Ezra care to share, yet, and you tiptoe around it, cautious to mind the delicate boundaries reigning all queries and tales.
He's told you that he owes her. That she has saved his live, more than once. That she chose to stick around, has nowhere else to go. The least he can do is allow her to stay and learn, though he hardly deems himself anything akin a teacher, let alone guardian.
"I apologize for loading that onto you as well, Patches," he says when Cee's out and about to look for... well, something she didn't want to tell you about.
"As soon as I'm back on my feet, we'll be off your back. I won’t overstay my welcome."
You raise a brow at him as you dribble expectorant into a half full glass of fresh water. Getting rid of the dust is something you won't (let him) neglect. You know the dangers, the potential consequences of protracted infections. The Green is lethal. Years later, unexpected, for some.
Not for him.
You'll make sure of that.
He takes the glass, pulls a pout, then downs it in one go. You shake your head at his antics and free him of the empty glass.
"You're always welcome here. Both of you."
"Very conside-"
"No, I mean it, Ez. I enjoy your company."
You rarely snub him, adore his verbose quality. Sparking exasperation in most, for you its soothing, somehow, to hear him turn any two word matter into a full discourse. But there's no further discussion in this point and you want it known.
"I've been waiting for you to show your mug here for much longer than anticipated. I'd appreciate if you didn't run off and jump right into the next heap of trouble the tick you recover."
You know he still might. Ezra’s an alley cat. A roamer. He doesn’t stay, doesn’t commit. It sucks, you think. But it’s part of who he is.
As if he has read your very mind, he offers a sheepish smile and a shrug that makes him wince.
It hurts you still, to see him like that. In pain. Bone-weary. Somewhat broken and at wit's end. It’s not the first time he’s taken damage out in the void. You’ve patched him up countless times, bestowing a little more meaning upon his nickname for you, besides the obvious hint to your well-loved patched up overalls. You’re certain it’s one of his reasons to keep returning. For you to aid all injuries and grievances, big or small, and help him rebound. But none of those have ever been so… devastatingly permanent.
“That dreadful, hm?” he asks and only now you become aware that you’ve been staring at the bandaged stump that once was his right arm. Caught, you redirect your gaze to his face. His pensive smile unsettles you greatly, hence, you boldly lie.
“I’ve been eyeballing measurements. For replacement.”
Ezra tilts his head and sees right through you. He knows you long and well enough. You’re not that sloppy when it comes to your work and passion. He doesn’t call you out, however.
“I won’t be apt to compensate you suitably, I fear. Great loss and little gain have marked my voyage into the Green. Not quite what I had longed for.”
It’s your turn to shrug then. You don't live off the smell of you oily rags. You can bear one job without payment. You cannot bear watching him and sensing the concern that festers inside. The whisper of uncertain future and dread to accomodate to his life altering predicament.
“I’ll figure something out, Ez.”
You know he’s not entirely destitute, either. When you stripped him out of his tattered suit with the help of Cee, a singular aurelac gem dropped from one of its pockets. You’ve shoved it back in, not mentioned it once, since. You won’t now. He’s lost his crew, his ship, his belongings, his arm. You will not take the little he has left. And he’s smart enough not to offer it. After all, he has a teenage girl to care for. And many necessities to replace. The meager haul will barely serve to get them through for a few seasons, give and take. Not worth its cost.
“You know what?” you say and pat his shin through the blanket, “Since you’re up, I’m gonna cook.”
His eyes grow large at the prospect of food. Real food. Not those ready packed protein slushies and Bits Bars he’s been surviving on. His innocent reaction lures a smile from you, the heavy prior conversation momentarily forgotten.
"You're kevvasend, Patches. I hereby vow, I will acquit my debt to you. If there's anything I can do to compensate, speak your wishes."
“Oh, hush Ez," you laugh as you get up.
You can't ask him to stay. You won't clip his wings.
You leave him to his own devices then, glad to direct you focus elsewhere and away from the wistful thought, and head into the niche that is your kitchen. Your living quarters are by no means large. The Pug offers little in matter of quality of living. At least in your financial range. There are spots for the luckiest ones, who’ve turned adventures into riches. High up, above the container structures that serve the those below the salt.
You don’t love the Pug. You don’t hate it either. For you, it serves a purpose. Travelers of all sorts frequent here and there’s always something to repair - be it a radio. Or a foot. It all pays well enough.
The area you live in might not be one of the nicest, but at least its no hellhole. Those are located closer portside. The days out are safe around here, beyond the occasional pickpocket. The nights are certainly not.
Cee knows as much, so she comes in no later than sundown. You’re relieved to see she seems to carefully gain some autonomy, unsticking herself from Ezra’s side little by little since he’s up. The trauma sits deep inside her soul, so much is obvious. But the ever-present haze of gloom that hangs above her lifts the tiniest bit with each passing cycle. She’s talking more now and her smartness shines with each witty retort.
Today she comes ‘home’ early. As she enters the living room, she holds a curious flat package pressed close to her chest, similar to the one she brought in cycles prior, and you wonder what's inside. Her sneakineass piques your interest, though you don't pry. If Ezra trusts her, so do you. There's no ill intent behind her secrecy.
Immediately after entering, she disappears into the tiny adjacent bedroom that has become her save haven. Surrendering it to her had only seemed the right thing to do. You don’t mind making do with the makeshift cot beside your provisory workspace, compiled of old roll mats, blankets and some stray pillows.
It’s all a bit cramped and no permanent solution for sure, but the situation justifies it for the time being, no question.
Cee reemerges from her hiding spot no sooner than you call her.
She helps you craft a crude dinner table from supply boxes in front of the couch and takes a seat as you serve dinner.
You’re a little proud of yourself as you carry the bowls over.
Living by yourself, you rarely take the time to cook. But Cee looks like she could use a decent meal and Ezra must be starving by now.
You’ve been taking it slow for him with solid food, not sure how much he’d be able to stomach, given his overall condition. But you’ve heard his stomach grumble several times throughout the afternoon and decided it’s time to take pity on him. Thus, you now offer something a tad more substantial than thinned out nutrient rations.
As you set down a bowl of stew in front of him and Cee, excitement settles over her features, and she doesn’t waste time to dig in. Very much like Ezra, it apparently has been some time since she last got any proper food between her teeth. She praises your (in your mind decent) cooking skills avidly between loaded spoons and you revel in her joy over something as simple as dinner. Your attention is on her until she freezes, spoon mid-air from bowl to mouth. A slight frown replaces the expression of content.
“Are you okay?”
Her cautious question returns your attention to Ezra, who’s fallen utterly silent. He still resides on the couch, now upright despite the nasty gash right though his midsection. The white-knuckled grip on his innocent cutlery sparks concern. First you guess pain. Then frustration. The situation must harshly remind him that he now, by force of events, is left-handed. A circumstance that threatens to grow more challenging with his progressing recovery.
But his expression reveals something entirely different. Brows drawn tight together, he stares down into his untouched bowl, lips almost non-existent with how adamantly he presses them into a line. Brown eyes brim with unshed moisture and a shaky breath runs through his tightly strung frame.
“’m fine,” he says but it doesn’t convince either of the friends present.
“Suppose I simply did not expect to someday enjoy another home cooked meal.”
It hits you then, like a wave crushing in. That he’d been closer to giving in than ever before. The Ezra you knew had his ups and downs, sure. You’d seen him falter and rethink, fuss and curse, if something did not turn out the way expected.
But he always, always, found his way out of life’s tumult eventually and, afterwards, spun it masterfully into serpentine stories of misfortune and close calls.
This time, however, he had been on the brink to surrender fate.
It scares you. It scares him. And it is all you can do not to join in and break, after cycles of watching him stubbornly battle the consequences of this one disastrous undertaking. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you reach out and wrap your hand around his.
“The more reason to enjoy it.”
His iron grip slackens with your touch, and he collects himself enough to blink the tears away. Soon enough he’s digging in as well and regains a tad of his usual radiance. It does you a world of good to see him delight in the carefree moment that sprouts. In the jokes and banter, the recount of memories.
Ezra narrates one of your misadventures to Cee and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his unbelievable exaggeration of your occasional clumsiness.
You hadn’t meant to set your supplies on fire. And they sure as hell didn’t burn down entirely! But the mischievous glint in his eyes, the verbal jab of his elbow, stokes a familiar warmth deep within your chest.
You’ve missed this - him - so much it hurts. And you long for the moment to last.
Alas, dinner comes to an end eventually.
At least it does in laughter, you think, as Cee mockingly threatens to stab Ezra with her spoon at the mere mention of ‘channel rats’.
You totally get her.
Shortly after, she excuses herself to ‘prepare’ something and you’re left alone with your now exhausted chatterbox.
You’re still undoubtedly curious about the girl, but Cee won’t spill a word about her mysterious project before she retires to her room.
“She writes a novel,” says Ezra off-handedly as you accompany him to the bathroom and only goes into detail at your astonished expression, satisfied to now own your undivided attention as he praises his fledgling. Cee manages to impress you time and again.
Your focus, however, is elsewhere already as you maneuver Ezra to stand in front of the narrow shower cabin. You pause to consider how to go about your task without further hurting him.
“You certain this is necessary?” He quips, obviously mildly amused by your very thoughtful frown.
“Dead certain. No more cat baths, Ez. You reek.” you mutter and he does look somewhat affronted, though he knows you’re absolutely right. Its something else that has him stall. With a sigh, he relents and drops the humor.
You feel the tiniest bit sorry for barreling right through his façade but the tiptoeing around all sensible topics drains your energy. By now you’re tired. You both are. You want to get this over with.
Taking a small step back within the cramped space, you allow him room and privacy to rid himself of shirt and pants. It’s a time-consuming process, but he’s learning, accepting. And you’re there to help, if need be.
While he undresses, you busy yourself preparing new bandages and waterproof stick-on foil to keep his healing injuries dry.
As soon as he’s bare, you step in and skim cautious fingers across his skin to apply the foil around his right shoulder and over the cut in his abdomen. He’s lost some weight, you notice, as your hand ghosts across his stomach. It doesn’t take or add from his looks. He’s always been handsome to your eyes. Always will be.
Mid-way through enduring your gentle care, Ezra begins to ramble again. He tells you about the nights in the Green. How the mist crawls in on stormy ones. And how bright and clear the stars shine through the calm nights. No exhaust. No light pollution. Solely the mesmerizing radiant glow of myriad stars across the void.
You smile at that and try to imagine the beauty he’s found within the Green’s death trap. He amazes you, too, time and again.
You stay as he showers; too afraid still unsteady legs might give in to the slippery tile floor. He doesn’t mind your presence, its nothing new, but neither asks for assistance until he’s done. Upon his call of the nickname he bestowed you with, you hand him a towel and help him peel the waterproof layers of foil away. You don’t leave him time to lose himself in the misted mirror, to mourn his loss and detest his marred image.
You turn him to face you instead, and gently cradle his jaw in both of your hands until your reassuring gaze has melted his frown away. Nothing has changed in the way you see him, how you care for him. With a smile, you allow no space for doubt and he mirrors it, just the tiniest bit more confident.
Only then you move to change his dressings and check the stitches under his attentive observation.
You think there’s something on that wicked mind of his, as you briefly glance at his face. Something on the tip of his silver tongue.
But for now, it remains a secret.
If You Will Let My Heaven Touch Your Stars (Ezra x f!reader)
Rating: Mature.
Pairing: Ezra (Prospect film) x f!reader
Warnings: FLUFFY SMUT. INSPIRED BY THIS. Non-explicit oral (m and f receiving). Formatting may be strange in certain Tumblr themes due to paragraph spacing with the poetry.
A/N: Okay, y’all. I was looking for another reason to write some Ezra. I got inspired by this naughty confessional post and felt the need to rise to the challenge, but make it a bit soft. You know I’m allergic to writing physical doings without some emotional yearnings. So it has come to this. And I’m not sorry.
Summary: Ezra runs his mouth over some poetry. You run your mouth over some Ezra.
TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST
MASTERLIST
_______________________________
You know that sigh. It will be shortly followed by a gravelly, dissatisfied “hm.”
“Hm.”
Next will come the impatient flipping of pages as Ezra learns that the book he’s chosen from the stack he got in trade on the Pug is…”less than literary and more than malignant.”
“What’cha reading, Ez.” The main node on the electropulse generator blew during the last harvest and you’ve been doing your best to repair it for the better part of the scaling period. Better to keep eyes on the electrics than let them wander over to his bedroll where he’s stripped to his skivvies, propped up against a crate, reading.
The rotation of Ranakh-4 is almost sixty hours, and in the north hemisphere there’s always light. Should be perfect for prospectors to take shifts and get things done, but instead, it creates a scaling period--a good fifteen-hour window of intense heat and sunlight that’s too dangerous to be exposed to for long, causing lots of nasty side effects. Including skin scaling. Hence the name. So during that period you and Ezra hide in the cooled tent, sleeping, polishing gems, maintaining equipment, wasting time, and generally trying not to annoy each other too much.
That’s a joke between you. In the years you’ve known him, Ez has yet to get under your skin. Ezra’s usually up for a game of dice or five-stand during scaling period, and if you’ve got gear to clean or inventory to count, he’s good for a story. Or ten.
But after the third rotation he stopped playing games of chance with you and his stories got gradually less... crusty. He still had a lot to say, but he stuck mostly to mining anecdotes, weaving around salacious details and editing himself in the moment.
And you’re pretty sure you know why.
This isn’t the first posting you’ve had with Ezra.
There was the assignment on Phintreas. The job on TG-19. The second assignment on Phintreas--that one it was just the two of you. Just like this one.
There was a moment near the end of that run when you took a break from digging to stretch, arching your back in the dappled sunlight and pulling your arms up and back toward the thick foliage tops. There were singing insectoid creatures on Phintreas and you’d dropped your wrists to your head to listen to their song a little, closing your eyes and hearing in their hum the chords of a song you used to love.
It was just a few seconds, the warm air on your bare shoulders, the long thin trees--actually large grass--rising and swaying above. A pleasant stretch in your lower back. But there was something off. Your ears were full of insect song but there was something missing.
The sound of Ezra’s digging had stopped.
You turned to find him taking a break, leaning on his shovel, jumpsuit open and pulled down to a knot at his waist like yours. Dirt-streaked arms and undershirt, looking at you, staring with sad eyes, the long slopes of his mustache running into his patchy beard making him look like he was pouting more than he was. Probably. Totally lost in thought, his eyes slid down your torso. When he woke to the fact that you caught him using you as a backdrop for reverie, he didn’t even have the balls to be embarrassed. Just realigned his focus on his shovel and went back to digging, the veins straining out on his big hands.
“You okay, Ez?”
“As well as one can be, sweetheart. I feel we’re close. It is a fine day full of wonderments.”
You’d thought about that look in the days afterward. Didn’t really know what it meant for you. Until the final sleep cycle on that grass planet, the wind traveling through the fields making the grasses sing hollow and low in the night.
“What’cha reading, Ez?” You’d come to learn that it was a magic question, one that not only got you an explanation, but perhaps a chapter or two in his baritone twang.
And that night, as you packed your final bag, he swung the spine around to read out, “Papas Cordel, Love Verses.”
He didn’t ask you if you wanted to hear any. He just started to read.
Softly. Slowly. The words were innocuous on their own but their combination was sinful, his voice melting at the back of your brain, lifting the fine hairs of your neck, slithering down your spine before making an orbit to press upon your core and vibrate there.
He never said goodnight. Just read you a few poems full of worship and yearning in that sonorous voice of his, then rolled over and went to sleep. It left you in a panic, trying to control your breathing, in full understanding of what that look from a few days ago had really meant.
And for the duration of your next couple of jobs you spent some time in regret, wishing you’d decoded your feelings sooner or that he’d made his own clearer. You’d vowed that if you ever had the chance to go back and live that night again you wouldn’t hesitate to….what? To do what? You never got that far. Didn’t matter. Time doesn’t go backwards. After a while, it was easy enough to convince yourself that you’d just read too much into it, that you didn’t really feel anything and neither did Ez. He had just been tired and staring into space that day. And he’d just been aesthetically moved by the song of the grasses in the night wind. It was a trick of the light, and the more you rationalized it, the further the memory slipped into the realm of silly fantasy.
So when this assignment came, you’d had time enough to leave the fantasy behind and met Ezra as you always had--as a friend and a damn talented prospector you were happy to dig with. The man always got his haul and getting paired with him always meant profit.
It only took one scaling period to make you realize you were lying to yourself.
Scaling period means getting somewhere shaded and cooled and making yourself as comfortable as possible. Which means stripping down to essentials. All those dice games trying not to look at Ezra’s broad, bared chest, looking up from a hand of cards to find his eyes quickly darting away from you…. By the third rotation you’d noticed that neither of you could make eye contact with the other anymore and after that, Ezra generally spent his downtime during scaling periods laying on his bedroll in his skivvs, reading one of the dozen books he’d scavenged back on the station.
You weren’t sure if you were flattered or embarrassed or even injured that he wouldn’t move on whatever he was tense about. But, ultimately, this arrangement was easier.
Or so you lied to yourself.
A “what’cha reading, Ez” got you a few chapters of an old time-travel adventure or a philosophical treatise on the life of some forgotten pioneer while you mended a garment or recounted the supply of viable drill bits or tried to fix the damn faulty electropulse generator for the millionth time. Something rollicking and full of resonance to keep your ears busy and your mind distracted while you focused your eyes on anything but Ezra’s bronze skin and sable eyes and full lips and big hands and thick thighs and--
This time he clicks his tongue and runs a hand through his hair, humming a high note in a kind of frustrated laugh. “I won’t devastate your ears on this one, sweetheart. Not much of interest here but some poor soul ruttin’ and scraping for talent that eludes them. How this found its way into a thing to be bought and sold I will never understand.”
And yet, he keeps reading. Silently.
After a few minutes and another wire successfully cleaned and reconnected, you repeat yourself, taunting him.
“What’cha reading, Ez.”
“Mm.” He just flips through a few more pages, refusing to answer.
“Hey.” You chuckle into your work. “What’cha reading.”
You hear a huge intake of breath before a hold and a forced release.
“Wow,” you laugh. “Fine. Don’t waste breath on it. Just tell me which one it is so I can avoid it later.”
“Love and other Stars by Aeon Aido Raja.”
“I see. What’s it about?”
“Sadly, it is about a poet who cannot seem to make the match between words and sentiment; a volume of supposed amorous verse.”
“Amorous verse,” your hands stop working on their own. “Love...poetry?” There’s a sudden flashback to the sound of hollow reeds and soothing verses in the night. The words are a program in your brain, overwriting your inhibition and professionalism, pushing you to a deeply-coded goal to calm the flutter in your chest.
“So it claims. Although I fear it lacks full understanding of both--” His voice cuts out as he realizes you’ve stood and you’re moving toward him and his wide eyes lock to yours as you sit beside him on the bedroll. “Now what has gotten into you, sweetheart?”
You know exactly what’s gotten into you. The triggered wish of returning to that night, the built-up tension of dancing around each other in your underwear, trying to deny what’s going on, watching him purposefully respect you when you know he feels something, when he knows you do too--
What was it you were going to do if you had a chance to go back to that last night on the grass planet? Time to find out.
“Read to me.”
Ezra hesitates, unsure. “This?”
“Read it.”
His eyes flick down to follow the quick fold of your lips as you wet them with your tongue, unconsciously mimicking you, before fumbling his gaze back to the book and, with a regretful sigh, begins.
“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--
“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”
When he looks for your reaction, you’re not sure if he’s pleading with you for permission to stop or continue.
Shit. He’s right. It isn’t great. But you’re here now, you’re going to make the most of it.
“That’s not...so bad.” And then you find out what you would have done that night--or at least how you’d start--by showing him your raised palm, lowering it slowly toward him. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” Your hand travels down through the air, just to the inch above his skivvs, waiting a moment in the aura of radiated heat there, before settling lightly over him. He never says no, never takes his eyes from yours, the only reaction coming from a small lift in his chest, the corner of his mouth curling just a fraction, and the fabric beneath your hand quickly becoming the only thing there to qualify as soft.
“Sweetheart, what you’re beginning here--”
“The only words I want from you are that poem. I want to hear you read. You stop, I stop.”
The heat hangs heavy between you, burns beneath your hand. And with a huffed exhale, Ezra starts again.
“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--
“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”
Supporting him from underneath, you’ve begun running your thumb up and down him, and his breath hitches, bringing him to a stop. So you stop.
“You stop, I stop, Ez.”
“Believe me, gentle one, I do not wish the impediment of your affections--”
“Then don’t stop.”
In a beautiful panic, Ezra looks back to the poem. “You sure you want this one?”
You nod. “I don’t care how good it is. That’s the poem I want. Keep going. I've always liked your voice. I know you can make it pretty.”
He stares at the page a moment, and you push him--literally--gasping into a start.
“If ever I could tell you When my heaven touched your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”
You stop palming him when he stops to breathe, and it’s only when you trace his waistband with your fingertips that he swallows and continues, willing you to keep going--
“Waking in the night to the aching void of your embrace-- Can you forgive me if I plead your name? If I summon you to my body from wherever you are?”
Whether it’s the want in his voice or just getting further into the words, the poem is already getting better. His eyebrows begin to push together and arch, as you stretch the top of his underwear down, wrapping your hand around him. His words start riding the occasional groan which just resonate with you more and you rock yourself against the bedroll in time with your gentle, yearning pulls--
“You hold me adroitly With accurate proximity To keep your breath and my breath Two founts and one pool. To swim a in star-reflective stream of our holy recreation--”
He’s doing so well, the words wandering out deep and breathy, so beautifully controlled...until you lower your mouth to him.
Then there’s a strangled staccato grunt as he adjusts, takes a couple of quick breaths and continues--
“But your body is a.....wildfire Your lips a destruction And I give my everything over to your….cleansing devastation.”
Oh, his struggle is glorious. You can feel him trying not to buck, needing to blow out a breath between pursed lips here and there to concentrate on the print. He reads with intent, leaning into context and feeling, making a gift to you of every word.
“I have yearned for you to find me worthy of a spark An ignition... The rebirth of your combustible attentions.”
He pauses again to breathe, and while you allow him a small reprieve, he’s stopped a little too long and you abruptly halt. When you pull back to look up in reprimand, he gives you a soft smile through his panting, shaking his head in wonder. You know he’ll have plenty of praises when this is over, but he doesn’t seem to want to break the spell to say them now. When you return his little smile, he looks back to the page and continues, prompting you to return to your own administrations.
“How you draw from me each sweet effusion-- Every secret vein untapped-- Now yours in expert execution, Now open to your burning maw.”
He pushes through the poetry rather than into you, allowing you to hear him and match him. Your body begins to counter-react as you feel him brimming, turning on more need in you than you’ve felt in a while, and you show him just how well he’s doing by doing well by him.
There’s a shift in his voice as more breath enters in and nonverbal noises begin to punctuate the words; a shift in his body as his fingers tangle in your hair and grip tightly, suggesting a final rhythm--
“But within the fire An aperture of...divine precipitation Where those of us who live untouched Can go to drown To die To howl…..! To see the blessed face of eternity Or the….busting open….of a thousand….wretched….stars-- You-call-me-to-sinful-prayer You-invoke-my-abject-soul I find myself in debt…!...and thrall…!... to your superior…!...divinity--”
When he stops reading this round, you show mercy as he pounds his fist into the bedroll and makes his own additions to the poem, exclamations made up of your name and curses and calls to higher powers. You can only expect a man to expel from himself wondrously one method at a time, and Ezra’s earned his reward so beautifully.
Damn his opinion. The poem was perfect. You chose correctly. Either that, or Ez’s tongue really can spin any old refuse into gold.
But the book is still held high, and as you lift from him and guide him through his aftershocks with your hand, he breathes heavy though the final verse--
“This is how I love you from afar With agony and forlorn words While you hover forever in my purview A shaft of dazzling incandescence Shining down from your sun/star Through the glass of my desire Starts and restarts an everlasting blaze”
Then, setting the book reverently on the bedroll, he takes your face in his hands, dragging his thumbs across your lips, no longer needing the page for the last lines.
“If ever I could tell you And if you will let my heaven touch your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”
Ezra’s kiss is achingly grateful. He tries to put into one kiss the loving equivalent of everything you’ve just done for him.
When he pulls back, he gives you the tiniest rough shake, a punctuation of his playful consternation. “Mmm,” he grunts. “While I am glad to know you find my recitals pleasing, you’re about to find out that my talent for oral ministrations do not stop at mere recitation.” With a miner’s strong arms he flips you over him onto the bedroll, making short work of your underwear and pinning your legs around his shoulders in a matter of seconds. “Now, I will not be so cruel as to make you put words to my reciprocation, unless you’d like to fill the silence to direct me to your will. Or say what you please. I will not be able to add to the conversation as I will be otherwise occupied.”
You don’t know if it’s years of running his mouth or wagging his tongue or yapping his jaw, but he’s well practiced in using allllll the muscles therein to help finish what poetry couldn’t quite accomplish.
At one point you think of surprising him and trying your own hand at reading while being entertained. But when you fumble for the book, it opens to the same poem.
But not the same poem.
The opening lines are there: “I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--Walking through the light of a moon in decline--Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”
And that’s it.
That’s where it ends. The whole published poem--a mere seven lines.
Oh, Kevva. That’s...that means….
Damn, Ezra. The mouth on you.
The book drops to the bedroll.
And you break into pieces as his heaven masterfully consumes your stars.
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Taglist: @melobee @extraterrestrialdork @14mcmd1122 @grogusmum @cannedsoupsucks
A Girl Walks Into a Bookshop: Chapter 1: Something Tender Inside
Pairing: eventual Ezra (Prospect film) x f!reader
Rating: T for now. Soft AF.
Warnings: None.
A/N: @grogusmum put the idea of bookkeeper Ezra in my head and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. (Although, I can’t stop thinking about Ezra just in general.) If y’all like it, his may be a soft little slow-burn series, not much will happen, just a pile of fluff to curl up with when you need something disgustingly soooooooooooft and chewy and dreamy (or if you’re @cannedsoupsucks and need a little Ezra + books to help you through a migraine). This is set a couple of years or so after the events of the film.
Summary: You’ve passed by this bookshop a hundred times. But today, Ezra convinces you to enter.
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MASTERLIST - BOOKSHOP MASTERLIST
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The book is a work of art. Red binding, gold lettering, scrollwork. The Streamer Girl. When was the last time you sat down and read something new? Held a beautiful volume like that in your hands and smelled the pages? Watched the curling script fall over sentences and create worlds in your head? It might do you good, just to take an evening to let your mind wander away from things. You’ve been low for far too long. It really isn’t good for your health to fixate on your failures over and over….
But not this book. Not this expensive looking book in this quaint little bookshop window. You’ve passed by this shop a hundred times, meant to check it out, but tore yourself away. You had books back at your workshop you could read again. Points were scarce and new books were a luxury you weren’t able to justify at the moment. You knew if you ever entered the shop it would just break your heart for not being able to bring them all home with you. And so you usually tucked your head down and moved on. But today, that unexpected transmission from your ex…. You made bad choices, babe, told you you’d be sorry….You were in a haze of self-doubt and not really paying attention to your errands and this little red book just caught your eye. Took you on a stream-of-consciousness tangent. Screamed out “you need a little escape.”
What was this place called again? You’ve been staring at the book in thought for a few minutes now and when you lift your eyes to read the sign above the door, you jump when you catch instead the eyes of someone on the other side of the glass who’s obviously been watching you. Crooked smile under a rough mustache. Patch of blonde hair over one temple among a thatch of brown. He’s got a canvas apron on, must work here. Leaning forward over the window display not a foot away from your face. How long has he been there? Weirdo.
You huff a short laugh and give him the universal look of “you scared the shit out of me, buddy,” which only causes the smile to creep up further on one side of his face. He jerks his head, “come on in.” And you throw a smile that doesn’t travel up to your eyes and wave your hands, “no, just looking, sorry” and start to move on.
But as you pass the door, he’s leaning out, calling apologetically. “It seems you are in want of a good book, gentle wanderer. The volume you were sizing up is indeed a fine choice.” You might just harden, wave him off and pass by, but now that the door is half-cracked, there’s the whisper of a pull to enter the shop. There’s also something warm in his tone, a fringeling twang that you’re a sucker for, something you don’t hear often on Kassiot.
“Ah, thank you. I was just looking.”
“I could see that. You were looking, but you were also wanting. How many times have you passed by this establishment and fought within your fine person the want to come in and explore?”
He...has an eccentric way of speaking that you find both fascinating and a bit of a red flag. If you stop for a conversation, you might find yourself trapped with someone you can’t nicely break away from. But you also can’t resist a character and make the decision to engage with thinly veiled amusement.
“How do you know this isn’t my first time seeing this shop?”
“Well, I could answer that, but it might betray the amount of time I spend looking out of windows.”
“Hm. Sounds like a lot.”
“Enough to notice.”
Wait. What does that mean? Has this guy been watching you? Is it time to get confrontational? “Yeah? What have you noticed.”
“It is the nature of the human beast to detect the gaze of a face that turns their way, as yours does toward these windows ‘most every afternoon. You’re the one whose eyes linger when her feet will not. But today, they did. And here you are.”
Something in this sincere, poetic reflection softens you, tugs at you. Like he hears a yearning within that you thought was quieter than it was. But it’s not his job to analyze you. It’s his job to sell his wares.
“Honestly...I love books. I do. I just...it’s a luxury I can’t afford right now. And this is just the kind of shop I think would ruin me.” You look up to the sign--The Queen’s Lair--and behind him to the dark wood paneling and high ceilings and chaotic but tightly-packed shelves, exactly the type of shop you’d wrap around yourself for comfort, but would feel guilty about spending hours in without buying anything.
The man smiles again, this time not so crooked, but it crinkles his eyes and throws a light into them. “Well then, you’re in luck! We have a traders and borrower’s policy here--nobody should go without a story in their clutch if they are in need.” He steps out to open the door for you, and it’s here that you notice his right sleeve is neatly folded and pinned up over a missing arm. “If you would be so kind.”
You might have said no. But he’s the one asking your favor, asking to be the one to serve you, with that dialect and some kind of rough charm…. And so you step in.
It’s exactly as you feared, dense rows to get lost in, narrow passages weaving back Kevva knows how far, wandering paths lined with books from floor to heaven, shelves higher than can be reached. But above that, the ceiling is painted deep blue with gold stars.
He notices you gasp a little at the detail. “My niece’s embellishment. Insisted on it. Enchanting, are they not? You’ll want to step over this way. I’ll ask you to mind the stacks, if you would.”
You barely hear your footsteps on the floor as the space is so muffled, so softly deadened of all harsh noises by the masses of bound paper all around you, nothing but the welcome creaks of the wooden floorboards. There’s something in the air that’s giving off a clean smell over all the leather and old paper, something of fresh--you spy jars of fillianweed in some of the corners and on shelves. Of course. Filianweed is poisonous to book mites. Lightly fragrant and useful. The little jars stuffed all around give the shop a bit of an arcane apothecary feel.
He leads you over to a small side room of the store with books stacked up in piles on the floor, the shelves mostly empty but with a few loose volumes haphazardly thrown on. Looks like he’s in the middle of a re-shelving project here. You’re barely able to squeeze in next to him, a little closer than you’d like, being that you seem to be the only two in the shop. He’s a large-ish man, a little backwater roughness in him, but he doesn’t come off as untrustworthy. In fact, you feel oddly safe around him. He’s not what you would expect in a place like this. Seems too sturdy. Built for harder labor. Which, you suppose, could be lifting and staking books after all.
His voice brings you back to the matter at hand.
“This is the kipper’s room,” he gestures to the piles, “I hope you’ll forgive its not-so-temporary disorder. Volumes tend to come and go fairly regularly here and I have not had the time or help of late to make it more presentable. But you’re welcome to skitter things around at your discretion.” He picks up an impressive amount of books with his one broad hand and plops them on a shelf, uncovering a paperback that he grabs and wags at you, gesturing as he speaks. “Initiates can take a book from this room free of charge. If I never see it again, well, that’s on me. But you can return it for trade or bargaining. You do that enough times, and I’ll discount a newer model for you. You bring in more, well, then we’ll have a spirited conversation regarding worthwhile compensation.”
“Really? You just...give books away.”
“Well, if you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside. As you can see, many of these are well-loved and worth more for their stories than for their looks. Hard to sell. Probably been on many a freighter trip. But a book’s a book. I’m not going to turn one away to the scrap heap if it means another soul might find some comfort in it. Now if it’s the one you’re pining for in the window, I don’t currently have that particular story on loan at the moment, but this one,” he hands you the paperback, tapping a finger on the cover, “may be on the same cue. Little mystery, little adventure, but a bit more of a...ripened theme. It’s got a hell of a love story will knock you back on your softer sections.”
You feel your stomach twist and you breathe out a nervous laugh to cover it. “Oh no. Thanks. Ah...I can’t do anything with romance right now.”
He’s quiet for a second, his eyes sinking into the slightest sad squint as his bottom lip purses his mouth and mustache up. Damn. That was revealing too much and now this peculiar man is pitying you. I don’t know you, sir, please don’t ask questions…..
But just as you’re about to backpedal and make unsteady excuses, he quickly lifts the book away in as much motion now as he was stock still just moments ago. “Okay. Then may I suggest--” he bobs his head searching a couple of stacks before grabbing and moving a few handfuls off one to uncover a smaller, less worn book. “This one starts off on an amorous note, but let me assure you, the man is a scoundrel and it does not take long for the heroine to kick him cleanly aside and find a more heartening adventure.”
The book fits into your hands like it was made for you to read. The Shillytern. The blue cover just shows a picture of a fairy tern, a tiny bird native to Kassiot, one that can fly over oceans without rest, but makes its nests in high places, building them out of rare purple bellflowers. There’s an old Kassiot song about a fairy tern that grows tired of purple flowers and flies out over the ocean to find those of pure white, never to be seen again. Rather than assume the bird has died, the lyrics imagine that she triumphantly finds a land of white flowers and better mates. An old classic for heartbroken lovers. Fly away, shillytern, go follow your heart’s desire. You haven’t seen a fairy tern or heard that song since you were a child and the picture twists a nostalgic dial within you. Happier memories. A means of escape.
You nod. This is the one you’ll take. “Do I need to fill out a loan card or something?”
He throws his head back just a little, his smile cocky enough to hold pride that he’s picked out the right book for you, but also kind--he’s happy to have been of service. “Not at all. Just need your name.” His voice is low and soothing; for someone who just met you, he genuinely seems to care and know that you’re not having the best day. He holds out his hand to you.
If you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside.
You slip yours within his. But not with your opposite as in a handshake. Something grateful comes over you and you take his hand like a friend and squeeze it, give him your name and thank him, surprising yourself with this strangely intimate and awkward gesture in this cramped space.
His hand is warm and dry from handling books, it circles yours greedily, burying it, dwarfing it within his sturdy fingers. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. But you don’t care because this man magically appeared out of nowhere and just gave you something you didn’t even realize you desperately needed today. Just a small thing, just a book, the hint of a memory, the promise of a little tranquility, the invitation to enter an environment that closes around you like a warm hug and smells like a long ago you’ve never seen.
He chuckles softly and squeezes back. “Name’s Ezra. And I am more than delighted that we’ve found something to your liking, but I’ll be needing the book to mark it with a loan stamp.”
“Oh.” Of course. The book. That heat in your cheeks shifts to a different kind of embarrassment as you realize now what he was actually reaching for. “Sorry.” Shit. Now who’s the weirdo here.
“No need for atonements, gentle friend. Far be it from me to turn down a gesture of connection or kindness from one who gives it in sincerity, nor from one who seems to crave its return.” Ezra’s keen eyes search your own before he nods his head around you in the direction you came in from and the rest of him follows, stepping over a short tower of books so as not to crowd you as he moves through the passage. “Front desk’s this way.”
He’s an odd mix of arresting stillness and sporadic energy, mirroring both the quiet atmosphere and visually busy aesthetic of the shop. If you’d laid in bed after waking and had to guess what twisting turning kind of a day you’d have, you never could have written this plot. The stinging slap of the transmission from your ex. The low morning. The burned toast. And then the moment you zoned out on your way to the markets, it brought you this little adventure with this strange character and his wondrous shop.
As he fumbles with the balance of opening the back cover and placing the stamp one-handed, you avert your eyes back to the painted stars overhead.
“Is this shop yours then?”
“It is. Bought and branded. The whole caboodle.”
“Huh. So is there a second floor?”
“There is, but it is devoid of books. That is where I lay my head at the end of a day tending to them.”
“You live upstairs? I didn’t think this sector was zoned for living quarters.”
“Squatters rights. You privately buy and sell on a piece of land, you have a right to sleep on it as well. All the enterprises on this street enjoy that little luxury.” He taps the spine of the book on the counter to get your attention. “Your paper fantasy awaits. Treat her like you love her.”
The little book passes reverently from his hand to yours, your thumb catching the back cover to peek at the insignia marked there--a classic English Q with an integrated L surrounded by little stars. “Must be nice, living above a bookshop,” you muse. “If you can’t sleep, you just have to come downstairs and grab a story to help.”
His dark eyes read you, judging your own set of strangeness, as if nobody else would point that out. Surely it’s not a unique thought. He must get that all the time.
“It does have its perks.”
There’s that stillness again as he watches you benignly, warmly, as you examine the paperback. Nothing more to say. The transaction is complete, he’s done his job, got you in the door and a book in your hands. Although, it’s not like there was a profit or currency exchange. Just a… an exchange of… what? Time? Kindness? You’re suddenly a little overwhelmed by it, sorry you’d resisted at the beginning.
“Well. Thank you. Ezra. It's nice to have a place to…” You gesture generically to your surroundings. “I’ll be sure to come back to exchange it.”
“I have no doubt. I anticipate it and look forward to your thoughts on it. No need to be carrying a book to step through that door. The shop is always welcome to wanderers. The novels like to be surveyed from time to time, and I would not mind the company in the quieter hours.”
You suddenly notice how still the shop is, the way the dust rides the sunlight, undisturbed. You’ve seen more people here, seen folks step aside at the door as someone entering makes way for a patron exiting with an armful of books. There must be little pockets of slow periods like this, and you can imagine him tooling around the shelves, dusting, replacing the jars of fillianweed, lazily stocking and rearranging...even staring out the window in thought. You bet he whistles... If he’s inviting company, that means he must run the place by himself.
“Do you… need anything?” You ask before you even know what you mean.
Ezra’s head tips back as he looks down at you in amusement, and his body leans forward, his elbow on the counter. “That is a simple question with many complicated answers could fill several afternoons and easily keep me from my vocation.”
It’s the first time you’ve genuinely smiled today. “I mean. It seems you work on your own here. Do you need...I don’t know. Can I run and get you some lunch or something? A coffee?”
The crooked grin from earlier returns. “I do appreciate the offer. But I assure you that for today at least, I am wholly content.”
Weirdly on cue, the door opens and an older man totters in, grizzled and greying, carrying a paper bag smelling of something freshly grilled. “Hey Ez,” he coughs and grumbles, setting the bag on the counter as you back off to give him clearance. “Brought your order. Ma says hello and wonders if you have that new Caldwell novel.”
“I believe I do. I’ll return with it shortly.” A short nod and a small smile float your way before Ezra disappears between the stacks.
It takes a moment to adjust back to the warm sunlight and the sound of insects when you reach the street. Where were you going? Supply market for parts. Farmer’s stall to see what’s available for fresh vegetation. FrieghterPost...that’s right, there’s a paper transmit in your pocket, an angry message back to your ex. Hmm. Scratch the FrieghterPost. You’re only half the heartbroken you were this morning, and a lot less angry for sure; you’ll just recycle the paper when you get home. The book fits nicely in your jacket pocket as you head off toward the market, hardly weighing you down at all. In fact, you couldn’t feel lighter in your heart and on your feet. Day’s taking a better turn after all.
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Chapter 2: Has a Glow in It -->
I’d just like you to squee over this wonderful illustration Maia did of our boy and the bookshop:
Illustration by @mjpens Original post can be found here at here.
Taglist: @extraterrestrialdork @14mcmd1122 @grogusmum @cannedsoupsucks @melobee @bruschi3 Also tagging @honestly-shite because of this post and its comments....and mostly for the mutual love of Ez + books.
Holding Weight
Rating: T.
Fandom: Prospect
Pairing: Ezra x f!reader
Warnings: Harsh words that Ezra doesn’t deserve and I’m sorry and it hurts me.
Summary: A story about guilt. Ezra forgives you for what you say when you're angry, even if you have trouble doing it yourself.
A/N: This is a request from @insomniamamma for my 300+ Follower Jubilee! The prompt got a little twisted from what she may have initially intended, but this is what happened in my brains and the core of it is still there...just a different kind of shield.
Prompt: Ezra + shielding the other one with their body
The weight you’re carrying inside is in disorienting, direct opposition to everything your physical body is experiencing.
You don’t even remember what the fight was about. It might have been about the landing. It might have been about the direction of the dig site. It might have been about these damn weighted boots you have to wear on this damn annoying planet. It was petty and minor and you were the first to go quiet and he refused to break it. So then you doubled down and turned your channels off inside the helmet because you didn’t want to hear him breathing without the words that so easily came with it.
And yet, something in you could still hear him.
In a way, you could always hear him. He was so often talking or singing or whispering in your ear--an ample presence on your very being--that if he was ever quiet, your brain and your heart still filled you with his voice, automatically. Like dreaming. Like a heartbeat.
You follow a little way behind him, watching the marshy floor, trying to step where he’s stepped in the soft ground, both of you taking slow, plodding strides, working with the weighted boots to keep you steady. Ferra had recently begun to lose its gravity--“recently'' meaning several thousand years ago--and while a scant atmosphere remained, it was still required safety procedure to wear the boots. Each step was a balancing act, a workout of micro movements, heavy and light at the same time, dragging and floating, a relearning of equilibrium.
But keeping your eyes scanning the ground also means you don’t have to look up, up through the deep blue into the gaping void filled with stars just waiting for you to float off and away. It feels like you’re walking upside down, just barely sticking to the planet, and one good mistake could send you falling up into that void. It’s literally your worst nightmare--you’d had dreams of falling up and out so many times on the journey here….
That’s what the fight had been about. How it had started. This fear and Ezra’s making light of it. How he insisted that you weren’t going to fall to the stars, there was plenty enough gravity left to keep you on the ground even if you didn’t wear the damn boots, they were just a precaution. How you’d told him he didn’t have to condescend, then his raised brow and rolled eyes and shake of the head, with just the hint of emotional fatigue--
“Trinket, your fears are unfounded, I am promising you. And for all that I will spin you stories from now until the beyond, I do not need to add repeated words to our conversation.”
There was something in the finality of it--something in your nagging apprehension that wouldn’t let go, something in the lack of breakfast and coffee because you were too anxious to eat--that pushed you to spit back at him, “Well, if you talked half as much, maybe the remainder would hold more weight.”
It was the look on his face at that moment that would sit heavy, that would come back to you later. It hurt you so much that it backlashed in your heart as anger. When he drawled out another, softer, more pained, “Trinket--” you turned from him and said nothing.
And then you suited up and turned your channels off before following him out of the pod.
So here you are. Trudging along in your implied irrational apprehension. Hushed. Gloomy. Even so, the anger is waning, residual, lightening. You eventually recognize you were just in a mood, nervous and hungry and unable to tell him that you still love him, that he was still your light, but that you just needed to be heard. Like love, fear is not something definitive that may be put to the side or so easily cast off like a pair of gloves. It needs to be voiced. It needs to have a light shone upon it.
How ironic then, that you’ve made everything so heavy and silent.
Except for his breathing.
Soft and steady, as if he’s not expending any physical energy at all. As if he’s not struggling step by step as you are to lift and swing the heavier boots, even in this weaker pull.
You check the channels. They are off. How can you still hear his breathing?
The second you take your focus off the marshy soil and turn it to your channel box, this is where it happens.
Your boot lands in a surfaced tar pit. And sticks.
Dammit. You do your best to pry yourself free, tugging, pulling, finally putting all your weight into your other leg and pushing as hard as you can, straining, willing the tar to let go…
And your foot comes free of the boot.
All that potential energy in your other leg springs you back.
But instead of falling on your back...you fall up.
It is slow motion made terrible reality as you drift away from the ground while your thoughts and panic run contrarily in double time, your breath coming out in tiny pants you can’t control, your sweat instantly coating all your dark spaces. There’s nothing to reach for nothing to stop your lazy propulsion. It's natural to swing your arms, try to swim against air friction that isn’t there, but nothing stops your gradual rise.
“Ezra! Ezraaaa!”
He keeps trudging away from you--
“Ezraaaaaa!”
--as if he can’t--
--oh.
You frantically fumble with the box, going to channel two.
“Ezra!”
It’s now that the world goes silent--you hear nothing, not even his breathing--as he turns to face you, and his sable eyes widen in horror, knowing that once you are in motion he cannot stop your rise to the void, but he runs for you anyway, a slow run, as a run through water, even though you know his mind hasn’t slowed his or voice…
“Trinket?”
But it is slower. Rumbles more.
“Ezra….please….”
He stops beneath you, unable to reach, and his eyes--oh--his eyes are so sad looking up at you, heartbroken, the same look he had when you told him earlier that he talks too much, when you snapped at him in irritation, anger that he did not deserve, hurt that you’re leaving behind in your fall from him.
You’ve very rarely seen this face. He’s looked at you so many times in pure adoration, in amusement, in questioning confusion. He’s laughed lovingly at you and cried in sympathy with you, but this--this hopeless hurt, this deep, saddening ache, this tired sorrow--it rips into you like an iron spike to bone.
“Ezra...please…please...”
“Come on back, trinket,” he pleads, softly, “it’s okay, you can come back…”
It’s this face that will be the last expression you see on him and this is your biggest mistake. If he could just send you off into the black with a look of love, with one last smile that makes his cheeks fold in creases above and dimples below--
“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, his breath in your ear, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
“No, Ez, no you don’t--”
“Shhhh.” His hand reaches out to you as if it can skim your fingertips, that hand that has laid heavy on your own, has guided your fingers along his body, has circled your wrist to keep the kiss he’s hidden there warm. His arm reaching long, yearning to hold you, to tuck you into its crook, to encircle your waist and pull you against his hips, to claim you for himself...you know exactly how it feels...can almost imagine that solid arm around you...
And suddenly he’s got you. Suddenly he’s on top of you, his thick frame holding you down to the soil, holding you down to the ground--
--holding you down to the cot where he’s spooned around you, pulling you hard into his broad chest, your wrists bunched in his fist under your chin, his body curled so tightly around your form that his shoulder and torso have pushed you almost all the way under him, twisted together like warped driftwood, his lips behind your ear, mumbling low.
“Trinket, I’m right here. I’ve got you. I promise.”
He’s heavy on you, but not so heavy as he would be on Central. Sleeping on Ferra is disorienting; hard to sink into slumber when you never feel like you truly settle. Your mind is rebelling, telling your body something is wrong, lacing it with dreams of drifting off in directions other than that of sleep.
Now you remember.
When your boot came off, you fell backward into the marsh, slowly, softly, with only a squeak of surprise. Ezra heard you. Of course he heard you, because neither of you would ever turn off your channels. A matter of safety. And he came back, knelt by your feet, pried your boot free from the pit, and gently pulled it back on your foot, concentrating on getting it fastened right, just the way you like it, not too tight. Then he held out his hand to bring you up to standing before turning and quietly trudging on.
He hadn’t been silent out of anger or petty argument, but because he wanted to give you the space you needed at the moment. He took the hurt you gave him and made it into care for you.
A little pearl of regret gathers at the corner of your eye-- too light to fall down your cheek to the pillow--just sits where you can see it and feel it, shining your selfishness back at you in the dim light of the pod.
“I’m sorry, Ez,” you whisper, weighing the words with every hope that he will understand, really, truly understand how deep you feel them, relying on his devotion to pull them down securely, to settle them in his heart where they can crush any pain you’ve given him.
“I know,” his voice is raspy with sleep as it comes from above you in the dim light of the tent, his lips in your hair, his thumb reaching out from where his fingers are folded around your wrists--lovingly now--to stroke you lightly under the chin. “I know. This is a difficult one, and you haven’t been sleeping more than fits and starts. It’s putting the fight in you and I see that. You go ahead and punch if you need. I know there’s no iron in your glove.”
Tears finally slide down now that there’s more of them, now that they hold more weight. There are no sobs, just a silent stream of release and regret and gratefulness. There’s the comforting gravity of Ezra’s body holding you in place. For now, all you have to do is get some rest and get to tomorrow. He’ll be waiting for you there. He won’t let you drift; although his anchor allows you to let go. Dreamless sleep below, forgiveness above, his breath in your ear, all channels open.
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MASTERLIST
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