we're not kids anymore.
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@tinydappledleaf
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
Character Exploration 🍎 Caleb (LaDS)
Caleb is late - and reflects on his situation.
-> an experimental piece to explore writing Caleb
Pairing: Caleb x MC, Caleb's perspective
Rating: T, comparable to game content
A personal vendetta against the fleet, a sabotaged navigational system, an overall messed up patrol flight through the darkness of Deepspace that should have ended more than a day prior.
It all leaves the colonel beyond tired when he finally sets his boot on the busy runway. A sharp gust of wind nearly whips his cap off, which is quickly adjusted in practiced ease. It’s a welcome sensation after days spent in the stagnant recycled air inside the ship. It takes his mind elsewhere for a split second before it returns to the situation at hand.
Hiccups like the recent one have gotten more frequent since the takeover of the Tuum Section.
None of it has been serious or professional enough to become truly worrisome. But the recurrence of similar incidents is wearing his patience thin, steadily gnawing away on his already strained nerves. Worst of all, it costs him precious time.
Time reserved for the one and only person preserving his ceaselessly assaulted sanity.
The colonel leaves Liam to deal with the aftermath, said man all too readily obliging the order despite having shared the taxing experience on ship. The Toring Chip, securely embedded behind the colonel’s right ear, effectively does its job, staving off the onslaught of guilt before it even gets the chance to manifest itself.
After all, there’s no one waiting for his obedient adjutant to come home that night.
Or at all.
'Who cares?' Whispers the chip in a quiet sequence of zeros and ones and preaches logic over emotion in an efficient release of calmative chemicals into the surrounding tissue. No friends, no compassion within the fleet’s hierarchy. Only subordinates and orders.
The chip does not affect, however, that tiny part of grey matter, closely guarded and hidden away behind a barrier of carefully crafted defense mechanisms, with but one desire:
Go home. See her. Finally.
The thought alone is enough to leave behind the 'colonel' for now.
Caleb strips himself of his restrictive uniform in a matter of seconds as soon as he’s boarded his personal aircraft, slipping a comfortable sweater over his remaining undershirt instead.
She loathes the mere sight of the intimidating uniform. He knows by the disdain evident in her gaze whenever it comes across her, whether he wears it or it’s just hanging on the coat rack by the front door. While she’s come to accept things the way they are now, at least he direly hopes she does, she does make no pretense of her despise for it. It leaves an acidic taste in his mouth, knowing that she knows. About the things he does. What he’s involved in. What doesn’t wash off when he showers, no matter how long he remains under the steady spray of water. No matter how hard he scrubs his skin sore.
Nonetheless, she comes to see him every other weekend. Voluntarily.
It soothes his conscience somewhat. That she still seeks him out on her own will. Despite everything, despite his own, now abandoned, aim to keep his distance to guard her safety, he can’t deny that he enjoys her presence. More than anything.
The more the irritation grows that some pesky nuisance dared keeping him away from her for longer than necessary. She had told him she’d arrive Saturday morning. The morning after his scheduled return. Now it’s well past midnight, a day later than planned, and he’s mourning the precious hours lost.
He checks his messages before he departs. A quick glance. To prepare himself.
There’re merely two notifications.
‘I’m at the station’, reads the first one, ‘Where are you?’
The second one, short and crisp: ‘I’m at your place now. Please be safe.’
He'd take any kind of annoyance or accusation over the quiet worry and resignation that echoes in her pick of words.
He can deal with her irritation; with the silent treatment she turns to in her anger that he's endured time and again throughout shared teenage years. What he cannot deal with is her disappointment. Her sad expression when he's yet again failed to keep a promise, no matter how tiny and unimportant it seems in the big picture.
A part of him hopes that she’s long gone to bed when he arrives. That her disappointment morphs into the preferred anger throughout her dreams. That she wakes up staring him down with annoyance in her pretty eyes as soon as she finds him in the kitchen prepping her favorites for breakfast. He can make it up to her then. Pamper her until she forgives him for standing her up.
That thought in mind, he takes to the sky.
The way home - now that he finally allows himself to call it that ever since she’s taken it upon herself to make it one - encompasses merely a few quiet minutes of rumbling thoughts and engine before his aircraft descends through the barriers surrounding his property. The landing is smooth, as it always is, despite the unease brewing steadily in Caleb's chest. The well-known tightness sits at war with a surge of pleasant anticipation to see her as he unlocks the door and steps across the threshold.
The house is as quiet as its owner as he disposes of his leather coat at the door. Quiet enough to make him wonder if she stayed at all.
A treacherous whisper in the back of his mind tells him she would be better off leaving and never coming back. Safe from the danger that lurks in the shadows around his presence. Safe from him and what he has become - Or has always been? He's not even certain of that himself anymore. Blame it on a lack of confidence or the murky spaces left behind by yet another set of (probably) unremarkable memories dissolved into nothing but muddled fog.
But he's too dreadfully egoistic for that. Too dependent on her sweet smiles and fond gazes as his fuel to power onwards.
Too addicted.
It’s despicable in many ways. But guilt and shame have long since faded into the background of his mind. If she comes to him willingly, he tells himself, he may as well allow her and keep her close to shield her from the creeping peril all around.
His silent steps on sock-clad feet carry him through the foyer while he tries not to expect anything, still.
The faint light from the kitchen isle illuminates the living room ahead. He spots half a meal abandoned at the table, cooking utensils already cleaned and neatly arranged to dry in his absence.
A hint that she’s stuck around. He barely shifts his gaze when he spots her barely a few feet away on the couch.
She's haphazardly bundled in a throw blanket, knees tucked to her tummy and hands comfortably curled beneath her chin.
It occurs to him that she must have tried to keep her eyes open until his arrival, regardless of the exhausting mission she had just accomplished herself before setting out to visit Skyhaven. The realization tugs at his heart in an unpleasant way, stirring the captious chip awake again unbidden. He ignores it in defiance and grinds his teeth through the threatening buzz that rattles his mind. Persistent little thing.
Once it quiets down, he redirects his focus to the sleeping girl.
She appears much smaller, curled up like this, much more vulnerable than she truly is these days.
She no longer is the little girl clinging to his sleeve at the faint and distant rumble of thunder. He's well aware that she's grown into a formidable fighter herself. Brave and strong, laughing into the face of danger willingly as she snoops around places that she should definitely not.
His little pip has grown resilient through all the years spent together, blossomed into something bolder and more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
But that doesn't quell his ever-present desire to protect her. To hide her away from anyone or anything that might dare cause her harm. He's promised her that. So many times, in silence or aloud, whenever her bright mind had been wiped clear, he's lost count. It’s the one vow he will never break, for as long as his stubborn heart keeps beating alongside hers.
He'll keep her safe and sound.
Gentle as he possibly can, he leans down to scoop her into his arms, carry her to bed, lest she wake with a crick in her neck come morning.
Only then does he take notice of the familiar piece of fabric spilling through the gaps between her fingers. Her nose is buried into it, muffling each deep and steady breath she takes.
It’s a worn shirt he'd left on the side of his bed in a hurry. None of the ones he'd brought from Linkon as he left for the DAA. He'd found her snatching those often enough, fresh from the clothesline, claiming them for herself to lounge in. He's used to that, as much as he can be, seeing her in his clothes.
But this one.
This one is recently bought. A necessity now that he gets (and wants) to spend more time out of uniform.
He’d understand she’d grab one of those old, well-acquainted shirts to wallow in memories… but this?
You killed my Caleb.
The echo of her hissed words still stings. It accompanies him, ricochets off the inside of his skull relentlessly. He'd begrudgingly made peace with the fact that she very much rejects who he is now. That she desperately hopes to somehow rediscover the boy that she's known her whole life. But this.
This tiny, unimposing gesture.
He freezes before his fingers touch her sleeping form, emotion welling up, swirling into a dangerous maelstrom of hope and sorrow alike.
A murmur of her name slips past his lips, and she stirs to the familiar sound, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as her sleepy eyes blink open.
Her drowsy gaze finds his in the twilit room and her smile stretches.
"Lebby," she mutters, evidently still half-asleep.
He hasn't heard that one in a while - the age-old nickname kickstarts his brain back into functioning.
"'m here," he affirms, hushed as his unsteady voice allows him to speak, as not to fully rouse her from sleep.
She hums, sounding utterly content, and winds her arms around his neck as he proceeds to pick her up.
Nuzzling her face into his shoulder, she breathes him in, and his mind teeters dangerously on the edge of the cold abyss again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Resist.
Relax.
This is what it’s all for. He refuses to give in to the persistent chip, denies it access to this one beautiful gain of his whole twisted situation.
Damn the chip. Damn Ever. Damn fucking everyone that dares messing up what he feels for her. He sears the moment into his memory, sealing it securely behind unbreakable barriers.
Her warmth, her scent, her weight in his embrace. This belongs to him and her alone.
"I'll always come back to you," he murmurs and presses a tender kiss to the side of her head. "For as long as I breathe."
The emotional strain only adds to his present exhaustion, the hammering pain within his head as agonizing as ever, and the brief walk to her room grows slow and sluggish. It so happens that, after he’s carefully lowered her onto the mattress, he doesn’t resist her pull when she refuses to let go of his neck.
“Clingy,” he mutters, but doesn’t mean it, as he gives in and lets her topple him over and straight beside her onto the welcoming bed beneath.
It’s far from comfortable; Limbs tangled, her elbow digging into his ribs, his cheek smushed into the cool case of her pillow. Still, he revels in the onslaught of sensation, savors the dull ache that spreads along his awkwardly arched spine. Silence reigns beyond the occasional creak of bones and bed until her voice breaks once more.
She adjusts herself, curls her arms around his bicep instead.
“You’re late, dummy…”
Her soft voice is muffled against his shoulder, barely clear enough for him to grasp.
“But I’m happy you’re home…”
Yeah, thinks Caleb, I am, and wraps his hand around her smaller one.
Enveloped in the shelter of her presence, lastly he yields the steady pull of sleep...
Title: Stay
Chapter: 6/6
Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader, Ezra x you (Reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)
Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6 (this one! Chapter content below the cut.)
Fic 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 5
Chapter VI
Time had inched forward so agonizingly slow when Ezra had been fully out of commission and you had been in fear of his life. Now, that his impending departure lurks upon, it gains momentum.
Chapter content: Smut begins with three stars (***) and ends with three stars (***). Oral (f & m receiving), PiV sex (unprotected except for not mentioned contraceptive implant - this is fiction, please be responsible).
You learn that he's been checking the board on each trip to the library, mind set firmly on picking up whatever assignment meets his current skill - and as soon as feasible, much like you begrudgingly assumed.
Salvage of some unfortunate mining vessel it is, a mere a hop from the Pug, right out in the belt.
No survivors, just hauling in the wreckage and tow it back to port.
It sends a chill up your spine.
Not because you don't think him capable. Even though his stamina still isn't up to scratch, he'll pull through. Ezra always does, somehow.
This time, although, he's on his own again. You just hope his luck will stay faithful to him. Proficiency alone is seldom enough to carry you safely into and out of the Frontiers.
The latter makes it tremendously difficult to shake the ominous feeling that creeps into your chest whenever you imagine him leaving. A suggestion makes its home at the tip of your tongue. You could use someone to assist you in the shop. You could afford it, too, if you hang in and reel in a few more orders than usual.
But you can't bring yorself to ask him. Even though he's quite adept as an impromptu mechanic when it comes to the occasional tiny spacecraft propulsion hiccup, Ezra is not one to sit down and tinker away in some rickety repair shop when he can be out there, drifting.
So, as much as you dislike the mere thought of it, Ezra's departure is scheduled for the cycle after Cee's.
What is meant to be a decent chunk of time to mentally prepare yourself for the usual loneliness of your quarters blinks by in what feels like a tick. You barely get to see the girl before she's whisked away by the bright future waiting for her.
Goodbye's are admittedly awkward. How do you make one's farewell with someone you barely know and yet trust so profoundly. You hug her, wish her well and tell her to stop by whenever she feels the need to. That she's always welcome and that you'd be happy to have her around. Your own wistfulness mirrors in her expression when she thanks you and turns to Ezra. There's a brief silence in which both of them contemplate what might be appropriate given their mutual story. You quietly wonder what they regard each other as. Its not something they've ever truly spoken about. At least not in your presence.
Ezra holds out his left hand to her, breathes in to prattle away in means of dispelling the nagging quiet. But before he can get out a single syllable, he's enveloped in a hug as well and - after a blink of stunned rigidity, he returns it with a chuckle.
"Take care, little bird," he says and the softness of his voice quite possibly melts your heart. "Let me know you're doing well once you've settled in."
Not everything has to be labeled, you muse, as they step apart and you watch Ezra cover up a bout of unwelcome emotion in clearing his throat and a wide, proud smile.
*
Its strange to see your bedroom door cracked open, when you return home. The space beyond is empty except for your own few personal belongings strewn about. Cee has arranged all like she'd found it, almost as if it had never been occupied by anyone else at all.
Save fore one folded sheet of notebook paper amid your bed, neatly torn from the one Ezra had bought her.
You expect a letter. Maybe a thank you for the brief time she's been staying with you. Maybe something she needs to get off her chest.
You unfurl it, curious, and nearly snort at the sole two words that almost defiantly glare up at you from the center of the page.
'Tell him.'
Oh, if it was that easy.
"What's so funny, hm? Illuminate me." The rumble of Ezra's voice right at your ear makes the latter obsolete. Nosey as he's sneaky, the old scoundrel.
"Tell me what, my dear Patches?" He asks, curiosity certainly piqued, and you swallow, even consider a lie. But the gentle brush of his hand against the small of your back eradicates all capacity to come up with anything plausible.
Playing unfair, the notorious sweet-talker. You know he won't press if you remain adamantly silent or tell him to back off. He respects your boundaries, as much as you heed his.
You can already sense him withdraw when you reach a conclusion.
If he were to get lost again, if he were to... never return - much like you'd feared when he last left - you'd regret not ever having said anything. Not ever admitting how much you care about him. How desperately you miss him. How your heart soars with his smiles and flutters at his touch. Oh dratted dewsucker, out the airlock all misgivings!
Dropping the note you knead your own fingers, breath in and throw out into the open what aggrieves you.
"Stay."
The whispered word is leaves your lips before you can think better of it.
You know he won't. Can't.
This life doesn't allow what you yearn for, even in he wanted to.
But it does convey how you feel for him. Something you've never dared admitting, lest hidden within the occasional soft brush of your lips against his skin.
You hear him shift his weight from one foot to the other behind you, almost expect him to chuckle and ask you to quit pulling his leg.
He doesn't.
Instead his arm snakes around your waist, and takes your breath away as he pulls your back flush against his front. Your gaze settles on the tiny tattoo that adorns the skin between his thumb and forefinger. 'Target for your tender kisses,' he'd joked upon first showing it to you, 'Got a few more of these. Want me to show them to you?'
A blunt lie. You'd thoroughly searched every single inch of his skin. No more target tattoos. It hadn't kept you from scattering kisses across his body either way.
The cool tip of his nose nuzzles the side of your neck and you feel the need growing to kiss him all over again. Kevva knows how many more chances you'll be granted.
"As alluring as your offer is," he murmurs and presses a kiss to your pulse. "I fear I must decline."
You had expected nothing else from him. His rejection stings nonetheless as you close your eyes and tip your head back to rest it on his shoulder. Hadn't you vowed to keep your distance?
"I may be many things, but I ain't no mooch."
His warm breath feathers across the curve of your throat, raises goosebumps against all better judgement. You really shouldn't. The more you allow yourself, the fiercer his absence will ache.
"Can't just stay an' lounge about, my love. Lemme do my share."
The unfamiliar endearment takes you off-guard. Startled, you blink you eyes open, try to crane your head and look at him, but his arm remains firmly wrapped around your mid, keeps you from fully facing him.
"Ez-"
His fingers wander, slip beneath the hem of your shirt to skim across the softness below.
You thoughts tumble with his touch.
Him leaving will hurt either way, right? Why not make the most of the time being...
He waits, patiently, to carefully gauge your reaction, retreat if he sees fit. You're aware how much he's been longing for some affection beyond your care. You remember his gaze in the misted bathroom. The way he'd held you after fitful sleep. Now, that you feel him again, solid and warm and close, you're not quite sure why you denied him in the first place.
You settle your hand atop his, briefly interlace your fingers before you grasp the hem of your shirt and peel it off in one swift motion that separates you from him.
***
The remainder of fabric is quick to join and the more you shed, the more impatient you grow. Ezra follows suit, doesn't complain when you step in to unlatch the button of his fly with deft fingers.
He allows you to explore, trace the scar that adorns his stomach with gentle care and kiss his shoulder. He doesn't wear the arm you've made him. Not yet. His flesh is still sore, barely healed and therefore vulnerable. Practice with his new appendage is scattered through the cycles, breaks in-between essential to protect his battered skin and flesh. He observes you, almost reluctant, as you take him in and marvel his appearance, no less stunning than he's ever been. And you won't leave him time to ever doubt that. For the rest of the cycle, Ezra is yours.
You guide him to your bed until his caves graze the mattress and at your gentle push to his sternum, he sinks back onto your bed, stifles a hiss at the biting cold of the wall against his shoulders. You follow his motion, lean in to trail soft kisses along the side of his neck. It draws a pleasant sigh from his lips that in turn tilts yours into a smile against his skin. Straddling his lap, you breath him in, memorize the scent of his hair, the sensation of its softness against your cheek.
"Wanna help me clip these locks tonight?" he murmurs. At the face you pull, he chuckles. You like it the way it is. Dark and unruly, curling at its wispy tips. The bright blonde tuft at his forehead sticking out in an odd angle, accentuating his beautiful asymmetry.
You get his reasons. There's little time and opportunity for personal hygiene out in the void. But right now you don't want to think about it, about him out there, and instead focus on his touch.
His hand roams the expanse of your back, nails leaving flushed trails in their wake. He never fails to remember how much you love it, how it nearly makes you purr in bliss. Nimble fingers crawl up your spine to gently curl into the hair at base of your neck. Rendered speechless by the sensation, you let yourself be guided to meet his lips.
A low moan tears from his throat, breaks his fervent kiss, as you roll your hips against him. As much as you want to take it slow, savor each tick of his touch, your need for him flourishes faster than anticipated. You've missed him too desperately to limit yourself to gentle pecks and teasing touches.
"Eager," he quips but whatever sentence is to follow is lost to the delightful little gasp that escapes him as your sneaky hand trails along the inside of his thigh in a featherlight caress.
The surprise on his face morphs into the devilish little smirk that you adore.
"You're a menace," he chides and before you know it, he sits up straight and lifts a leg to tip you sideways with the momentum of his sudden move.
He topples over with you, braces his weight on his forearm before he collides.
Retaliation for your teasing isn't long in coming. He descends upon you, revels in your playful giggle at the prickle of his whiskers against your jaw.
A hint of his teeth grazes your chin, turns into sweet kisses on his journey down, down to the juncture of your shoulder and neck.
"Missed this," he whispers in between nips and licks that he ardently scatters across your collarbone.
Your fingers curl into his hair as he inches further down and nuzzles the softness of your breast, pours all his reverence into his loving ministrations. He's careful, less teeth, more tongue, very aware of your sensitivity. He knows exactly where to be rough or gentle with you, has learned the hills and valleys of your body like his own.
You watch the muscle in his arm flex with the strain of supporting his weight in the less than ideal position, but his determined expression remains unwavering, undeterred by his struggle, and utterly enticed by the way you squirm and rise to chase his touch. A whimper of his name spurs him on, stokes his blazing desire.
"I tried to recall this..." he murmurs as he mouths at your supple flesh, then kisses his way down your stomach as far as he gets before he needs to relocate.
He sits back on his haunches, uses the moment to admire you laid out bare in front of him. You have to resist the urge to reach out for him with greedy grabby hands, demanding for his closeness. Mustering patience you let him watch his fill and shiver as he leans in and strokes his thumb across each tiny dot, traces each and every scratch and faded scar to map out your body.
"Couldn't conjure up all this beauty for the life of me. Stars, you're ravishing."
You preen under his soft-spoken praise, feel the pleasant heat churn in your belly as you see him twitch at the hushed little whine that escapes you. You desperately want to touch him, crave to lick the bead of precum that pours from the velvet tip of his aching cock.
"Patience, love" he breathes as his gaze follows your yearning one.
"I've..." He breaks off and briefly closes his eyes to regather his thoughts. His confidence falters just for the fraction of a tick, before he regains his smirk and leans in to press a gentle kiss the side of your knee.
"I've found little time for pleasure ever since my departure for the Green. As much as I'd enjoy your lovin' ministrations, I fear I may embarrass myself."
"I don't care," you shoot back, "We've got half a cycle to do anything we want to. As often as we want to."
Your fierce resolve makes him chortle, amusement further crinkling the skin around his eyes. Kevva, he's beautiful.
"Covetous, are we?"
The curious tips of his fingers follow the soft skin along the inside of your thighs, halt just shy of your center. Gentle force spreads you out for him and the sight that unfurls beneath his watchful eyes draws a breathy sigh from his chest.
His intentions are evident, glint within the hungry gaze that devours you from a careful distance. The way he tilts his head makes your insides curl in anticipation.
But not yet.
You refuse to grant him all the fun.
"Kiss me?" you ask and his gaze returns to your most innocent, pleading eyes.
He considers your request, softly runs his tumb along the seam of your thigh. You shudder under his touch, but hold his gaze.
"How could I ever deny you a kiss?" He complies and leans back in to capture your lips. You might be playing the tiniest bit unfair, but the lack of his right arm to support is your chance to flip him over and pin his remaining hand to the pillow above his head.
A grumble vibrates through his chest and the sting of his teeth in your lower lip is retaliation. Not enough to truly hurt, but enough to file it away as mute complaint.
"Minx," he chides when you break away for air. He mirrors your grin. "Using my weakness for your advantage."
"Hush, Ez." You drop a peck to the tip of his nose. "You'll get what you want."
True to your word, you sit back and turn around above him. Ezra hums in satisfaction at the new angle, while you inch back into position. Bowing down and settling on your knees and elbows, you feel your heart pick up its pace when his warm breath feathers across your exposed folds.
"Gorgeous." Your hear him mutter ardently, feel the roughness of his stubble rub against your thigh. Your focus, however, lies on the prize of your little tussle. His breath hitches as you lean in to lap at the soft skin of his balls, drawn tight already with unveiled excitement.
In turn you feel his arm firmly wrap around your backside to haul you closer.
You comply, spread your knees a little wider to allow him access. You expect a kiss. A teasing featherlight touch. Not the sudden swipe of his broad tongue along your slit.
It throws you off balance, prompts a moan and a tremble that nearly sends you sprawling right onto his face. You can almost hear him grin, so damn pleased with himself, that menace of a man.
He continues his languid licking, puffs praises against your wet skin in between, until you're barely capable of thinking straight. Your fingers dig into the flesh of his butt and thigh while you pepper kisses and sweet little kitten licks across his shaft in return. Rubbing your cheek against him and nosing the coarse curls at the base of his cock earns you eager twitches and pleasant groans that rumble deep in his chest.
Its too much and just right all at once. Shaking against the relentless efforts of his deft tongue you up your own game and use one hand to grasp his length and pull back his skin to lap at the sensitive underside of his crown, before you envelop him whole in the soft heat beyond your lips.
His nails dig deep into the skin of your waist and he yelps and whimpers under your affection.
"S-slow down, love, I beg of you-" He grits out from behind and the taste of salt coats your tongue in his excitement. You suckle, let him writhe for a sweet little moment before you show some mercy and release him with in a leisurely lick from tip to taut skin at his base.
Slow is not what you need, however. Not at all.
And as much as you enjoy the pleasure that he offers, you yearn to see him unwind, feel him pulse deep within.
You find him blinking bemused as you twist and turn without so much as a word of warning.
"I wasn't done-"
His protest dies in his throat as you straddle his hips and lower yourself to glide your folds against his length. Ezra shudders, brows drawn tight together and eyes closed in mute pleasure and desperate restraint.
Oh stars, you've missed him. The way he winds up beneath you, fingers fisting frantically into your bedsheets. He's gorgeous in each and every way, his skin flushed and slick with the perspiration of his struggle. You repeat the motion, again and again, your clit caressed by the ridge of his crown.
You're already as close as him, the tingling tightness in your belly blazing with each pass of your folds across his velvet firmness.
You sigh his name and his eyes flutter open to watch you, entranced, as you grasp his cock, line him up and sink into his lap in one swift roll of your hips.
His solid heat pushes the air from your lungs in a blissful moan.
Your body melts into his, sinking forward onto his chest to chase his warmth, so full of him, shivering with each twitch of his length inside. You'd be content with this lasting, curled into his embrace, Ezra deep inside and all around you, wrapping you in his affection. But there's more.
You feel his thighs press against the back of yours as he firmly plants his feet onto the mattress to seek delightful friction.
Languid thrusts rock you against him and you cant your hips to meet each motion, bury your face into the crook of his neck. You can't help the wetness that drips onto his heated skin, part fruit of the pleasure he sparks, part missing him before he even takes off.
At your ear he sings your praises, fingers firmly tangling in your hair, tugging with gentle resolve.
"Look at me, love," he whispers, nearly pleads as you twitch around him. "Let me watch you fall apart."
How could you deny him?
You press one more kiss to his bared throat, relish the prickle of his patchy stubble, then raise enough to lock eyes with him. He looks sinfully ruined, almost whimpering at your vision and a particularly devastating roll of your hips to swallow him deep.
You kiss him, slow and deep, like each slide down his shaft and it winds you tight enough to shatter.
The pulse of his cock and the panted sigh of your name send you crashing over the edge.
You feel him watch, spellbound, as you arch your back above him, shuddering with the force of your height.
He follows right after, pulled along by your rapture. His groan tears through your blissful haze as you come down and you feel him throb and spill his seed within. A sensation you cherish more than your own peak. Eyes closed, you sink to your forearms and touch your forehead to his, fingers curling into his damp hair.
***
For once Ezra is rendered utterly silent as you flutter your eyes open to find him watching with such humble adoration, it urges you to hide. He doesn't let you huddle back against his neck, however, instead cradles your cheek in his hand and presses a gentle kiss to the bridge of your nose, to your cheekbone, to you lips.
"Had I been granted a life less turbulent..." he murmurs and nuzzles his nose against yours, "I would not bide a single breath ere I accept your proposition, my love."
There's no exaggeration to his admission. Not a hint of doubt in his gaze, his hushed voice.
You love him. All of him. The honesty and thoughtfulness reserved for all dear to him as much as his drive to wander the void, as fraught with threat as it may be.
"I know, Ez," you whisper back and nestle into his safe embrace.
Of one thing you're certain. No matter how far he strays and how long it may take him.
In the end, he finds his way back to you.
You've got half a cycle left to show him you'll be waiting. And you'll enjoy every last tick of it with him close....
...Ezra's late. Again.
You try not worry too much about it. Delay is no rare occurrence for the odd job snatched from the board.
After all, Ezra does hold true to his word, does no longer pilfer for assignments that carry him through half the system based solely on some half-baked hunch of hidden fortune.
You wonder what detains him this time, look forward to his murmured recount of events when you curl into his side to soak in his warmth for as long as you're allowed.
You don't know, yet, of the deposit that he has stumbled about quite unexpectedly. The rich lode of precious metal that permeates the nondescript asteroid right next to some drifting wreckage.
Little do you know that he's aimed homewards with a broad smile on his face and but one intent.
Stay.
Title: Stay
Chapter: 5/6
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
《 chaper 4 chapter 6 》
Chapter V
You won’t say it out loud, never are one to boast, but as the last screw seals the sleek outer case of Ezra's prosthesis seamlessly you feel awfully satisfied.
So is Cee, as she throws open the entrance door with a huge smile, a somewhat breathless Ezra in tow.
“I did it!” She exclaims and you nearly drop the whole arm in fright at the abrupt intrusion to your quiet moment. Gingerly disposing of it on your desktop, safe, you turn to face her. By now Cee stands amid the room, openly overjoyed with something you have not yet grasped, while Ezra drops onto the couch to catch his breath. The brisk walk home draws a cough from his battered lungs, but it doesn’t diminish the joy that twists the corners of his mouth upwards in a smirk.
Arm lazily thrown across the back of the couch, his grin rivals Cee's, despite the remaining rattle of each drawn breath. There’s something about his expression, that makes your heart skip a beat. A parental sort of proudness, revelling in his fosterling’s achievement. And Cee wastes no tick to let you in on what exactly the ruckus is about.
“I made it into the academy! They picked me for a scholarship for two whole seasons!”
“Never expected anything else, Birdie,” praises Ezra and winks at you from behind her back.
It doesn’t take more to infect you with their mutual excitement and you jump from your spot to spread your arms wide and envelop her in a big hug.
“Congratulations!” you cheer as you retreat a step, still trying to make heads or tails of the sudden but stunning information.
“How? I mean- They just do that? Give out scholarships?”
Puggart Bench’s academic complex is careful to pick they best they get. It might have nothing on all the luxuries the Ephrate offers, but education around here isn’t low-cost either. Most youths around do not receive any education whatsoever, learn solely what’s necessary to survive out in the Frontiers. Your own education consist merely of your own experience and whatever you'd picked up from the mechanics' proficieny when you'd helped out in repairshops as a teen.
But Cee is different. She deserves to thrive.
You know the academy does not throw out scholarships at random. They're sponsored by the Pug's big fish, seeking to pilfer the pool of graduates for the most promising alumni. The entry exams are tough, focused on fluid intelligence rather than factual knowledge, the base for quick and efficient tuition.
Her receiving scholarship means she has proven herself to the academy's Argus-eyed examiners.
But, even though you're very aware, you want the spotlight on her, want her to tell you herself about her success.
Eagerly she shakes her head 'no' to your question and fishes a signed letter from her bag. It’s a bit crooked and folded askew, but it is her proof. Her acquired treasure.
“I took a test, a few cycles ago, when I was out with Ez,” she hurriedly explains. The nickname makes you smile even wider. Tiny proof of the trust she's gained towards him and vice versa.
“I didn’t even think I could make it, that’s why I didn’t tell you, but they said I was in! I’m a bit late, so I need to catch up on a few things, but I can start as soon as I’ve packed my stuff!”
You take the letter she holds out to you and briefly study the summary of her result and, Kevva, are you impressed. You knew she was smart, never doubted her success from the tick she set foot into your life, but this is damn remarkable. And it grants her entrance to a life never available to most forlorn fringeborn kids.
“So, I take it you’re gonna leave soon?”
You hand the letter back to her and she nods fervently, as she shoves it into her satchel.
“Tomorrow morning,” she confirms and it makes you grow immediately wistful. Cee can be a handful, like each youth and some, but through cycles spent under one roof and around the same 'table', you’ve come to care more about her than you had initially expected. She reminds you of your kid sister, fierce and sharp, but just as kind, and never ever capitulating to whatever life throws at her feet. She’ll get far. And you dearly hope, you’ll be allowed to witness it.
“I guess I’m gonna go and... well, pack my stuff now,” says Cee, as the adrenalin of her glee slowly dwindles to a steady nervous bubble. Thumbing in your bedroom’s direction, she takes a few steps towards it. “Thank you… for letting me stay.”
You brush it off with a flick of your hand.
“You’re always welcome to visit.”
Which she will, you hope, on the occasional break of her studies.
Nodding gratefully, she retreats into what has become her room and you already feel the pull of her absence.
Settling one hand on your hip, you watch the door close until a soft clap prompts you to turn.
Ezra pats the cushion beside him and you gladly accept his invitation. You flop down and melt into his side until your cheek rests on his shoulder.
“You’re gonna miss her so dreadfully,” you mutter and Ezra gives a noncommittal hum. But you can feel the sigh he breathes in the rustle of your hair, the way he deflates beside you as he drops his head onto the backrest.
Closing your eyes, you enjoy the silence, the solidness of his body against your own. Just for a second, you'll allow yourself to enjoy his presence.
Until you remember your own little surprise.
Well, not much of a surprise since he's almost constantly been lurking around your space. But he does not yet know that you're finished.
Ezra grumbles as you sit up a little straighter, but doesn’t complain as you flip yourself over to face him. Both legs pulled up beneath yourself and tucked into tailor-fashion, you grin at him.
“I got somehting for you as well.”
“You do?” He quips and tilts his head to eye you, tired but smirking. You realize he's probably already noticed when you'd nearly dropped the prosthetic arm as Cee breezed in. Nonetheless you’re not inclined to cancel the revelation of your hard work.
Untangling your legs, you get up and retrieve the finished piece from your workbench. There’s no need for fancy wrapping or a box. He’s curiously observed you working on it for cycles on end. Seeing the finished thing is different, however, and it shows on his face.
Emotions flitter across his features as you settle back beside him like before, the prosthetic arm now displayed on your lap for him to see. There’s gratitude in his smile, wistfulness in the knitting of his brow and a hint of caution in the way his fingers gently trace its sturdy frame. You’ve built it to last and aid him in whatever future challenges life is about to set on his trail. Soft rubber fingertips and palm allow gentleness as much as a secure grip and, if he chooses to, a rudimentary sense of touch.
You watch him patiently as he places his flat hand against the one you created, each finger lining up against its artificial counterpart to near perfection. The sight mists your eyes and you need to blink a few times to clear your vision as Ezra speaks.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Patches," he starts haltingly. He looks almost torn. Unprepared to flip open this new chapter of his future and yet thrilled to.
"I couldn't possibly clothe my gratitude for this in words and I vow that I'll do my damnest to provide some compensation-"
He falls utterly silent as your hands raise to gently grasp his jaw and raise his head to face you. You feel him swallow harshly as you lean in, eyes closed, and touch your forehead to his, mute and soft, but all the same conveying that its okay. That he doesn't need to compensate for anything.
Its a bold move, but you can't help it. Cee's departure is a mere cycle away and if you aren't completely mistaken, he won't stick around much longer. Even with her scholarship, two seasons from now he'll have to fork out a hefty sum if he wants her to continue. And he does, you're certain of that.
He won't spent his time dawdling about with you if there's still a fortune to make, somewhere out there.
Ezra's your alley cat, after all.
He might return and stay a bit if you feed him. But other than that, he does whatever tickles his fancy.
Its nice, though, somehow. His skittish visits, the little feline presents he keeps dropping on your figurative doormat. A pretty rock. A beautiful flower. Or a forlorn little birdie.
But if he disappears on you again...
If he disappears on you again, you need him to know that you'll be waiting. That you'll patch him up each and every time he drags himself home to you.
"Promise me one thing?"
He hums his question, prompting you to go on, as you scooch closer and wrap your arms around his neck. Nose buried against his shoulder, you fumble for words that suddenly feel inappropriate. No strings attached, you remind yourself. As much as you yearn for one to tug on gently, signal him that you need him, wait for him to do the same.
"Nevermind," you mumble, but his low chuckle tells you he's long caught on anyway. His arm pulls you closer as he mirrors your affection and he's warm and close and its all so fucking unfair.
"I hereby vow," he begins solemnly and murmurs his promise right into your ear, "that I'll take more caution on any future endeavor. You hear me, Patches? I'll be careful and I'll be back home before you even notice me gone."
The latter is a blunt lie. As if his absence could ever go unnoticed. Nothing rings louder than the silence he leaves. Nonetheless, you grasp the sentiment. No detours, no gratuitous risk. Only then you fully comprehend his words.
Home. He considers this, you, home.
Ezra, wanderlust personified, the incorrigible scoundrel scouring the Frontiers for riches, thinks of you as his home. You've been his friend, his safe haven. But never before home. It constricts your throat, makes you curl into him. You've let yourself feel too much, as of late. You'll regret it when he sets out again, but at this moment, yu can't help it.
"Thank you," you mutter and sense him smile against your skin, his returning stubble a pleasant prickle.
Reluctantly you let go of him, slowly resume your initial position and rub the treacherous moisture from your eyes. If he does observe it, he doesn't comment on the brief crumble of your resilient facade.
"So," You clear your throat and he listens, patiently, "You wanna try it?"
"Why, yes." He says with such severity, it lures something between a chortle and a sniffle from you as he pulls his shirt over his head and discards it haphazardly somewhere on the couch behind.
"Ain't gonna let that work of yours go to waste. Show me what it's got."
Refusing to let yourself be distracted by his bareness, again, you slip into professionalism and carefully inspect his stump before you proceed. He shivers under your gentle touch, but keeps his mouth shut for once while you evaluate what you see. You've checked his wounds on a regular basis, satisfied with watching him heal under your care. The stitches in his abdomen have dissolved enough by now to be nearly gone and the remainder of his arm is free of infection, the laceration fully closed.
"If gets too uncomfortable or hurts, tell me right away," you instruct him.
"The area is most likely still tender, even though its healed pretty well. You're sure lucky Cee did manage such a clean cut, otherwise this might have gotten really ugly for you."
From the corner of your eye you see him pull a face that tells you its been nasty enough as is and you feel for him. But its the truth and you know he's truly more than grateful for her help, for granting him the chance to live and escape the purgatory that is the Green. Glum memories are swiftly wiped away when his attention shifts back to your doing.
Step by step you show him the process of attaching his artificial limb, patiently help him to adjust the gapped liner to ensure all electrodes sit in proper contact to his skin. It takes time and some frustration on his side until his stump sits snugly inside his brand-new limb. When it does, he watches almost reverently as you show him how to safely seal it through the press of a button. A quiet hiss of the remaining air being expelled securely attaches the artificial appendage to his remaining arm.
"All good? Nothing pinches?"
"Nope," he says, eyes still glued to his arm. "Snug as a bug in a rug."
Shaking your head at his antics, you inch a bit back to allow him some space.
"Go ahead, try it."
Your gentle encouragement relieves his momentary rigor and you observe him lift his arm from his lap, still held horizontal and otherwise unmoving. He halts, concentrated. Testing its weight maybe? You aim to keep it realistic, not too light, not too heavy. Still, it differs from what he's experienced ever since loosing the arm he was born with. You've often heard that it feels foreign or unpleasant, even. It takes some getting used to.
Before you can say anything, however, he seems to have arranged himself with it for the time being and your smile widens as he slowly unbends it at the elbow, then twists the wrist to point its palm downwards. Fingers jerkily curl, form a fist and uncurl with a little more grace.
A few practicing repeats of the motion smooth out the initial stutter.
You hear his held breath rush out in a soundless, incredulous laugh when he touches the rubbery pads of his fingers against his thumb, visibly stunned that he feels it. Its by far not like the real thing - more a general feedback of touch that grows with rising pressure. But its something. And suddenly its him who blinks back the mist in his eyes and it makes you want to hold him all over again.
The sound of your name interrupts your thoughts, albeit registers a little belated for the reason that it is your actual name instead of his beloved moniker for you.
You tear your eyes away from his arm to face him.
And two simple words, rough around the edges with raw emotion, carry more meaning than all of his impressive vocabulary ever could.
"Thank you."
Title: Stay
Chapter: 4/6
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 3 chapter 5 》
Chapter IV
Ezra’s health steadily improves over the following cycles. So does his connection to Cee. More often than not you find them immersed in their respective reading, side by side on your worn couch, or discussing the novels that keep them busy.
You hadn’t even known there was a library within walking range of your complex. You were told it was by no means large and consisted mostly of questionable survival guides for the odd floater prone to reading. But it hadn’t taken Cee long to sniff out a small section of old novels, idly gathering dust on a neglected corner shelf.
Ever since Cee disclosed her secret lair of entertainment to curious Ezra, the two of them occasionally vanish for walks and return with a new stack of reading material.
Each time you see them come in and witness the girl’s carapace of wariness thaw further, a content warmth settles within you. Their encounter, out in the Green, was nothing but a long string of unfortunate circumstances, tightly wrapped in the moon’s overall perilous conditions. There was no turning back time. No taking back rash and questionable decisions on either side.
Still, they make it work, oscillating between forgetting and forgiving what can’t be undone – somehow saving each other from falling prey to the lurking spiral of debilitating ‘what if’s’.
Whilst they tentatively form their bond, you are more focused than ever. Measurements taken cycles prior, you ceaselessly work on Ezra’s prosthesis. And when he’s not out and about with Cee or poring over shared literature, he’s by your side and shamelessly nosey. While he certainly insisted on off-the-shelf design and basic functionality, you’re adamant on making it from scratch. A service you barely exercise with the clientele of mostly mineworkers from the belt or the unluckiest of prospectors.
You delight in it. In creating shapely, reliable prostheses. In fabricating something that increases the quality of life in each aspect. You want him to feel good with it – and safe. So you pour your entire passion into the task and slowly but surely manufacture a prosthesis, that is him, in any possible sense.
“Why don’t you join us?”
Cee’s question breaks your concentration. You had been so preoccupied by your work, that you nearly missed them leaving. Now Cee stands by the door and eyes you expectantly. Guessing by the stack of three novels in her arms, they’re about to move out on another run for the library.
You eyes flicker back to the elbow joint in your hands, almost ready to be attached to the forearm’s base.
“I ain’t gonna regrow a limb, Patches,” ribs Ezra, “No need to rush.”
He’s got a point, as nasty as that truth tastes. And… even though you won’t admit that out loud, as long as you’re working on the replacement for his arm, he might be inclined to share your quarters for a tad longer. As much as you want to help him get back on his own feet, that thought is tempting. You can’t deny it hasn’t crossed your mind before, mingling with the persistent yearn for his closeness. You’ve adamantly pushed it away, woven those pestering emotions into your drive to work. But now that he's suggesting you to shift down a gear…
“Alright, gimme a sec.”
From the corner of your eye you watch his growing smirk. Somewhat satisfied with hint of relieve. As you set your work aside and slip your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, you wonder if he feels guilty for accepting your help. What you offer has certainly outgrown a simple ‘favor’. Out in the harshness of the Frontiers, Ezra takes what he gets, no questions, no remorse. He’s not one to doubt his actions. You’ve seen him ravage with little care for his kind. But around the girl, around you, a softness surfaces that you adore.
A softness that shines in the warmth of his eyes when you step outside with them. Sometimes you wonder what kind of man he would have been if he hadn’t been abraded by the roughness of the system’s fringes. A merchant, maybe? An author? Your mind paints a picture of him wielding a pen like wields his thrower. As daring as he’s proficient. You’d have succumbed to his charms all the same.
A stupid, happy smile glues itself to your face as you walk with him in the afternoon sun, listening to his literature shop talk with Cee.
Soon after your successful visit to the tiny dusty library - Cee has swapped her returned novels for a new one - Ezra excuses himself to take care of some business. Tie up a few loose strings of his travels and get himself back out into the world, now that he’s capable of it again.
You don’t question him, hold back from asking him to be careful. You feel quite ridiculous for even considering that – not that he’d listen anyway. You really need to get a hold of yourself, shake off that weird anxiousness that sprouts whenever he disappears for a bit. You’ll have to deal with him leaving eventually, so better ease back into indifference before your resolve breaks.
You're on your way back home, swerving by one of the rundown streetfood stalls to get some takeaway, when Cee speaks up.
“You like him.”
Its not a question, rather a statement. And for the briefest moments, you’re at a loss of words. She doesn’t even face you, has her nose buried between the pages of her new novel as you set down a bowl of fried ooka roots in front of her.
“’course I do,” you admit and sit across from her, not quite sure where this is coming from. Or going to. “I’ve known him for quite some time. Don’t find many people out here that keep returning, for… various reasons. He’s reliable, mostly-”
“Are you like a couple or something?”
You blink, your cup of tea paused mid-air, half way to your lips. Cut right to the chase, girl, why don’t ya?
“No,” you muster as you set the cup back down. “Ezra isn’t the type for that kind of relationship. How come you think that?”
The question is out before you think better of it.
It might have been wise to cut the conversation short at that point, never pick it up again. But if she has noticed, then…
“My dad and I lived here for a bit. People don’t help each other out like that, even if they’re friends. Or pretend to be. But you help us, even though you don’t really have to.”
Her observation tells a lot about the crowds her father had surrounded himself, and her, with. Or had to surround himself with. You don’t judge a man you’ve never met on account of your own assumptions. But it explains and warrants her wariness - and keeps her safe in present day, at least.
“Maybe I’m just exceptionally generous.”
She closes her book, sets it aside and casts you a quizzical glance.
Pulling her food a bit closer, she inspects it before she carefully takes a bite and seems to be pleasantly surprised. Glad that she seems to have dropped the topic to enjoy her meal, you take a sip of your tea.
“I think he likes you, too. You guys stare a lot at each other when you think no one looks,” she mutters defiantly between chewing and you nearly choke.
*
The rest of your evening consists of tinkering on Ezra’s arm. It takes your mind off things, keeps you from mulling the girl’s statement ceaselessly. It remains in the back of your mind, however, quietly teasing, prodding, prompting you - regardless of how adamantly you try to ignore it.
Ezra returns home late, but with a few surprises. Its obvious he’s made money off his meager haul, traded it in – you don’t dare asking where, you know he’s made as much of it as humanly possible, no matter how shady the trade.
He’s brought another notebook, a few colored pens and clothing for Cee. She’s been wearing some of yours, but none of them fit her shorter and slimmer teenage frame properly. The new ones do, mostly, and for the first time in a while you’ve seen her truly, honestly joyful. None of it is fancy, in any way. But they’re new. And clean. And not some free extra to a pod rent.
He promises she’ll get to pick a few more if she accompanies him to the shops. That he just got some basics for her to be comfortable in. As he got some for himself.
He earns a hug for all of it and his dumbfounded expression is adorable enough to sear itself into your memory for lonely days to come.
All new treasures piled in her arms, Cee retreats into her room, to try them all on properly and marvel her new writing and sketching utensils.
A befuddled Ezra remains with you and sinks onto the couch, still perceptibly exhausted by each trip through the Pug’s convoluted innards. He’s not back to full health yet, still visibly in pain, but you see him grit his teeth and tough it out anyway. Showing weakness out in the void puts you to bed with pickaxe and shovel quicker than two channelrats proliferate.
There’s nothing to dread in your presence, but you understand it’s a habit hard to shake.
“That was pretty nice of you,” you remark and slip down your googles over your eyes to sand off a particularly sharp edge.
“Rather a matter of course than benignity.”
“Oh come on, give yourself some credit, Ez. You could have gone with the cheapest or not get her anything at all. You still did. That is nice.”
He hums to that, not convinced. You hear him smile nonetheless and its infective. The girl does him good. Gives him purpose, even though he’s been incapacitated. Its obvious he’s grown fond of her, will protect her by any means. It sure does feel a little like family, having them around. Like things could have been, in another life. You shake off the thought before it festers and continue your work.
When you lay it down eventually, you find the couch deserted, too occupied to have noticed Ezra slip away. To the bathroom, apparently, the light creeping out from under the door discloses.
‘The Streamer Girl’ sits on the provisory dinner table and, with a yawn and a stretch of your aching back, you give in to your curiosity.
Claiming Ezra’s usual spot, you pick up the booklet and sink into the story.
Until there's a bellowed curse and loud clatter, followed by a rapid string of inventive expletives in reducing volume. First startled, then alarmed, you drop Cee’s ‘Streamer Girl’ onto the couch and rush into the bathroom, skipping across all courtesies.
You find Ezra at the sink, pressing a towel to his jaw.
Deep red seeps into grey fabric as he glares at his mirror image. The razor in the sink is your missing clue and suddenly the scene gains some sense.
“Fuck, Ez” you swear, heart still hammering relentlessly against your ribs. “Lemme see.”
How dare he scare you like that? He’s done enough of that lately.
He knows you well enough to understand you brook no dissent. Not if he’s hurt, regardless who’s at fault. Dabbing the fabric against his skin once more, he turns and lets you step in close to assess the damage.
To your relief, it’s merely a small cut right at the seam between his jaw and throat. Not worryingly deep but certainly unpleasant. Just another sting that adds to his remaining pain. You catch his wrist as he tries to wipe away a drop of fresh blood and shake your head.
“Let it dry. You’ll be fine. Head’s still in place, so all good.” As if to check, you gently cup his jaw and tilt it left and right.
“See?”
That earns you a low chuckle and it warms you that you accomplished to prevent his drop in mood. A warning sits at the tip of your tongue. The gentle reminder for him to be more careful, but it appears tone deaf, even if it’s meant well. You swallow it again.
“Assist me, then?” He quips, “Lest I inadvertently behead myself.”
He plucks the razor from the sink and holds it out to you, hilt first. An invitation you eye with surprise, but won’t decline. Ezra’s a proud man. Opportunistic and confident. But never above himself when it comes to asking for help. At least around you.
You gingerly take the razor from his hand. It’s an old-fashioned thing, wooden handle, steel blade. No standard laser utensil. It’s always been a quirk of his that both, appeals and baffles you.
Once you’ve taken the responsibility from him, the lingering tension seeps from his form. He observes you rinse the blade and holds perfectly still as you spread the wiped off shaving foam back across the remaining salt and pepper whiskers. You pause then, purse your lips. You admit his beard has grown a tad too long, but you’ll miss the stubble. It suits him, compliments his roughness.
“The ‘stache stays,” you decide as you set to work, and he suppresses the amused twitch of his lips.
“Hold still,” you chastise, and he obeys. His eyes close, a sign of trust, as you set the blade to his jaw.
Each slow pass of the razor across his skin stokes a silent fire within him. You observe it in the way he tilts his jaw into your free hand, in how his fist curls and uncurls at his side. You can hear the air crackle, sense the growing tension that seeks to break the surface. It tempts you. He tempts you.
His eyes flicker open and his fiery gaze burns into yours, honeyed irises darkening as you watch. It’s a well-known game for the two of you. Has been, whenever he popped by before leaping headfirst into his next adventure. It’s a game of desire you both excel in. The tiniest wordless step further than trust and friendship that you dare. A silent agreement for the sake of satisfaction.
You get it, his desire. Or at least try to grasp it. He's been trapped on a toxic moon with a silent brute for his sole company. Little to no means to just... let go. To gain just a spike of euphoria in otherwise dire circumstances.
Still, you refuse to give into his pull. You won't be the one to tear his stitches, damage him worse. Still growing worn out by a shopping trip, he’s not yet back in shape.
At least that's what you tell yourself, hiding the bitter truth of lingering fear. Like this, you only get him for glimpses. Briefest moments of commitment and intimacy. Then he vanishes again, the stars know for how long. He might have never come back if someone was to change the tiniest detail of his recent misadventure. You’re not sure if you can bear his closeness now, without begging him to stay right after. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?
No, you can't. You won't. Swallowing your own need for his affection, you finish your handiwork and swiftly press the towel to his face as he tries to lean in. He blinks, openly bemused and somewhat affronted by your mute rejection, but doesn't press. Once his face is gently wiped clean from the remainders of shaving foam, you drop the towel to the counter.
One of your hands remains on his jaw, thumb gently stroking the softness of his freshly shaven skin. You meet his suddenly uncertain gaze with a soft, apologetic smile.
"Another time, Ez. I don't want to hurt you."
You watch the 'but' form, the promise that you're not gonna hurt him, that he won't break. It disspates at your expression.
Title: Stay
Chapter: 3/6
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
《 chaper 2 chapter 4 》
Chapter III
Ezra lounges on the couch when Cee emerges from her hideout late that evening. From your spot at your provisory workbench, you eye her curiously - or rather what's in her hands. A small package, neatly wrapped in a glimmering foil you recognize as a cut up emergency thermal blanket. Ezra has noticed, too, and assumes a more attentive sitting position as she approaches him.
Once Cee has reduced the distance to a mere few steps, she offers him the silver glinting object. Its a present, you realize. So does Ezra and looks somewhat befuddled and, to your astonishment, like he's at a brief loss of words.
"For you," nudges Cee, despite the already obvious gesture. "Take it before I change my mind."
That prompts him to move and she hands it to him. You try not to observe too evidently, considering whatever transpires is most likely meant to include just them. But, admittedly, you're much too curious to fully turn away now. You feel slightly out of place, though, as you continue to bring off your remaining orders.
"To what, say, do I owe the pleasure of gifts?"
"A get-well gift..." explains Cee, her features carefully schooled into a neutral expression. There's tells of uneasiness, however, in the rigidness of her stance and the clasp of her fingers around each other once her hands are free.
"My mom used to give me some when I was little. Like... to distract you when you're not feeling well. I know it's late, but I didn't manage to get it done any quicker."
Her little admission warms your heart. She's a good girl, Cee, and Ezra is just as aware of it. You know him well enough to imagine his throat bobbing with implicit emotion, the gentleness that appears within him as he unwraps her present.
"Too kind, little bird," he murmurs into the rustle of foil, "Thank you.
It takes him a moment, using just one hand and his knees to unstick the tape, but Cee waits in quiet patience, if a little fidgety.
When silence settles, you can't bear it any longer, drop all the pretense and turn to chance a look at what rests on Ezra's lap.
Its a notebook. Not the one you've seen Cee with multiple times. This one's cover is caramel colored and intricately decorated in patterns and tiny pictures. Even though you're not able to see detail from where you sit, its obvious all of it is drawn by hand. The lines neatly twine around bold ballpoint written letters spelling out 'The Streamer Girl'.
Ezra's fingers trace the patterns in awe, but there's something about his expression that calls your attention. A crease draws shadow to his brow as he opens the booklet and finds her writing inside.
"You made this?"
"I did. I finished writing the draft when you were out cold after we got here. You said you must read it someday so... I thought I might get the entire thing finished sooner, but some parts didn't read like I wanted them to when I copied-"
"How?"
The clipped word startles her and wipes the bubbling excitement right off her face. Ezra's reaction is certainly not what she expected.
"As I said, I copied it. My first draft has so much scratched out and-"
"No, where did you get this?"
He snaps the booklet shut and raises it for her to see. Its obvious then, what troubles his soul, and you break a little for him. Cee, though, does not catch on as quickly and you watch confusion spread across her face as she regards his stern expression.
"I traded it. For some of the leftover rations from the merc pod. Figured we wouldn't need those anytime soon."
Her voice is almost defensive now.
"From some stranger at the port?"
"In a pub there, actually. How is that relevant?"
Ezra's face contorts at her words. A brief flicker of blanched consternation is overruled by the severity of a frown.
"Cause you could've gotten yourself hurt. Or worse. Girl, this is the Pug. You can't just amble 'round the port, let alone those dives, an' trade goods to the odd stranger. It ain't safe!"
She's laughing now, in his face, and its agonizing to watch, but this isn't your place to poke your nose in.
"Yeah? And you are?" Cee snaps throwing her hand out in Ezra's direction, then yours, "Or her? All I have is strangers. And who's at fault for that?"
It's not a question. It's a mean punch to the gut and it's delivered with such searing venom, that only teenagers are able to summon from somewhere deep within. Then she turns on her heel, marches back into the room she's come from and slams the door shut.
Ezra remains unmoving, only winces briefly at the sudden noise. Devastation rests in his wide eyes as his one hand firmly clasps the reason of their dispute.
"She's right," he mutters and it pains you to see him so distraught and strangely forlorn. It's so blatantly obvious how much he's come to care for his newfound protégé. He's trying to do right by her, despite his lacking experience. Ezra is not a parent, never desired to be, though you reason its more the doubt towards his own qualities and ways of life than actual displeasure at the thought of it.
He's a little brother, nestling of his family, not accustomed to any 'parental obligation' for the young.
He made a reliable captain, for the time he was granted, caring for both, the success and well-being of his crew. But that about totalizes his wisdom in regards of responsibility.
You still believe he's more than capable of it. You're familiar with his tentative, caring side, his subsisting urge to protect what's dear to him, no matter at what cost.
"You're gonna fix it, Ez."
Your attempt of consolation sounds hollow, even to your own ears, after their quick but harsh conflict. Ezra heaves a sigh at your well-meant pep talk and flops back onto his good side, gift still in hand.
"Fixin' things is not somethin' I do own great aptitude for, Patches. That's your métier. Besides, I fear some mess-ups ain't fixable..."
"Give her time to cool down," you suggest as you turn back to wrap up your order for delivery, "Then go talk to her. She's a smart kid, she’s gonna be okay."
And so are you, you muse, as he absentmindedly hums his doubtful agreement. The sound of a page turning recovers the soft smile on your face. Already immersed in her writing, so it seems.
*
You struggle to find sleep that night. It happens. Mostly on odd times for no particular reason. This night, however, it’s the lingering tension of conflict that hangs heavy in the room. It has you turning in bed to find a position that is somewhat comfortable. None is.
Right now, you’re on your back again, eyes closed in a futile attempt to drift off. Thoughts meander though your head, draw lazy repeating circles, as you listen to the sounds of another night within the busy asteroid base that is Puggart Bench. There’s shouting in the distance and a warm breeze carries the rumble of starting engines through your open window. You guess freighter by its volume and duration and try to imagine what kind of payload might lift off into the void. The Pug’s port is a hub for merchants and smugglers alike. Resources, jewelry, tech-ware… beetles? It could be virtually anything.
You give up as the engine roar dies down and yields the softer noises around. The perpetual whir of the ceiling fan. A rustle of cloth.
Ezra.
You turn on your cot, careful to keep quiet, and make out his motionless silhouette in the darkness. He’s fast asleep by the steady sound of his breathing, overwhelmed by the exhaustion of his recovery. In, out, deep and slow goes his quiet snore. You count along and fall into his calm rhythm. Before you know it, sleep has claimed your consciousness as well.
It doesn’t last long.
You’re awoken by ruckus.
There’s thrashing and groaning and it takes you a hot tick to realize, that its in fact not another brawl in the alley below, but the man right across the room.
Abruptly wide awake and bolt upright in bed you scramble over to the couch to find him trapped in what has to be an awful nightmare. Brow furrowed and beaded with sweat, he tosses his head on the pillow and muscles twitch under the strain of his jerking body.
You try to call out his name and gain nothing but jumbles of disjointed words and syllables. The sudden grimace of pain etched into his features is the final nail. Throwing caution to the wind you grab his face with both hands, fingers cold against his flushed skin. You expect him to lash out, toss you right off him. Whatever ingrained instinct kicks in first.
Instead, you suddenly stare down into his open eyes, wide with anguish and sheer terror. Time ticks by like honey until all tension drains from his body.
You unfreeze alongside him, give in to gravity’s pull and sink onto his still heaving chest. You stay like that for a speechless moment, listen to the thunder that is his heart and to the rush of his labored breath. His shirt is damp and warm against your cheek as you curl your fingers into its loose fabric. Nightmares are no rare occurrence for anyone out here. You’ve had your fair share of them as well and it’s by far not the first he’s lived through in your presence. But you’ve never seen him this stricken after. A shudder runs through your body.
A breathed apology wafts through the night and you shake your head ‘no’ against his body. His hand comes to rest on the small of your back regardless, thumb drawing soothing strokes across the curve of your spine, and you feel miserable for savoring his gentle touch. You’re not the one in dire need of consolation. But you’ve missed this so much it aches. This tenderness he offers only in the dead of night.
Ezra’s an affectionate lover, if he wants to be. You’ve had it both, his rough and reckless love, pent up and burning after cycles out in the Frontier, and all of his gentle passion. But never are there strings attached. He crashes in like a gale, wild and without warning, tears you apart and puts you back together piece by tiny piece. Then he vanishes and leaves you in the wake of his storm with nothing but the ghost of a smile and the promise for more.
It didn't faze you seasons ago. Tonight, the mere thought of him disappearing again is nearly unbearable. But that doesn’t change a thing.
You breathe him in once more, then slowly right yourself to find him watching.
“Didn’t mean to rouse you,” he murmurs, and you brush it off again. Briefly your gaze flickers to the bedroom door, but nothing moves within its range. At least the girl appears to have slept through the commotion. You’re glad. It spares her some more worry.
As you turn back to face Ezra, you’re unsure what to do. You know better than to ask for his dream. If he wants to share, then he does, and you listen. This time, however, he doesn't. You respect his decision and move to pull away and reclaim your cot, but his hand comes to rest on your thigh and effectively prevents you from rising to your feet.
"Stay."
One simple word is enough, of the man that owns so many, to break your resolve and you melt back against him, even though you might regret it later.
His arm curls securely around your waist and tucks you into his warmth. The position is far from comfortable, half sitting besides, half laying atop his body, but right now you couldn't care less. For a few precious ticks, he's yours again. You won't waste the tiniest bit of it.
"I imagined this..." he sighs into the silence that settles.
"’s what kept me sane all by my lonesome through the nights. Longed to have you there with me an' despised myself for the very thought of it."
His wistful admission only serves to make you huddle closer to him. He's safe now, with you. You lay like that and listen to the steady thump of his heart, now calm and slow, until you hear him mumble again. It’s some sort of poetry, you recognize, by the rhythm of each carefully crafted verse. It’s a new poem, unfamiliar to your ears but as beautiful as any else. You’re far too tired for interpretation, comprehension of context even, and by the third stanza, the low rumble of his voice has lulled you into sound slumber. Ezra holds you close to himself, keeps you from slipping away in your sleep, and, quietly, thanks the cosmos for hearing his most desperate plea.
*
You wake to the insistent tingle of squished limbs and the first rays of morning light. Its still early and the room is quiet except for the subtle snore above your head.
Mourning his warmth the moment you carefully extract yourself from Ezra’s embrace, you stretch your aching limbs and suppress a yawn. Your gaze falls upon the readily packed orders waiting for delivery on your workbench and you sigh, not yet ready to abandon the combined comfort of couch and Ezra. But the sooner you get over with it, the quicker you can focus your attention on the replacement for his arm. You already have a design in mind that your fingers are itching to sketch.
So, with great reluctance, you get up, shower, dress and collect the package. As you pass the couch on your way out, you pause and lean in to press the briefest of kisses to his temple. His brow creases adorably at the contact, just a brief twitch. Then you’re on your way.
*
Smooth delivery and adequate payment have you in good spirits on your way home. You're looking forward to a hopefully quiet afternoon and taking time to properly measure Ezra's remaining arm and stump to plan the fitting replacement for his missing limb.
When you get there, however, the mood is still sour.
Ezra's back is turned as you enter. Wordlessly he's facing the back of your couch. There's still no trace of Cee and you wonder if either of them has made the tiniest step towards reconciliation. It doesn’t appear like it.
As you undo the top of your overall, to knot both sleeves around your mid, Ezra skips over any greeting and launches straight into an unexpected question.
“Did she divulge you the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting?”
You halt, mid-knot, confused as to why he deems now the time right to let you in on their secret. You respond all the same.
“Not yet.”
"There was an altercation with her father. Didn't know of her presence then. Thought the man was by himself, fixin' to make a fortune. A returner, hoping for some scraps from the rush. He threatened me, attempted to seize my entire haul."
It’s a crude and compact re-narration of the actual events, you sense as much. Still, you predict the outcome correctly.
"I shot him."
Ezra's admission is clipped, unapologetic. A factual statement sans the usual flourish.
The oppressing mid-day heat hangs heavy around you as you try to wrap your head around the information. Ezra has killed Cee's father. You get the why. You get the how. You don’t challenge either. You're attuned to the savage rules that reign the Green or any space within the outer Frontiers. What you do not get is the reason for his sudden urge to share what has been withheld until now. Is it remorse?
The question is out before you're able to think better of it.
"Do you regret it?"
"No. I do not. From what I've glimpsed, she's better off without him. But who am I to judge? She's better off without me, either."
"And you sulking in your own misery changes anything about it?"
He flips around at your brazen pick of words, fury etched into his features. It doesn't intimidate you. It’s not directed at you, but at the situation he finds himself in. It ebbs away as quickly as it sprouted as his rash movement retaliates. His muscles twitch, a brief grimace of pain breaks his glare. Two deep breaths later he flops down onto his back. You allow him a few seconds to recover before you start the conversation again.
"She knows you mean her no harm. Give her some time to think it all through and, as I said, talk to her. That’s what you excel in, remember? Where is she, anyway?"
The door to her room stands open but Cee is nowhere to be seen.
He hums to your statement. An uneasy feeling creeps up your spine as you turn back to Ezra to spot concern carve deep lines into the skin of his face.
“I don’t know. She walked out on me this morning - when I tried to approach her.”
*
Cee is late that evening. The light recedes and there's still no sign of life from her. You're slowly beginning to worry, but Ezra's been beside himself for the latter half of the afternoon. He's pacing by the window, stern gaze fixed upon the alley below.
"Sit down," you ask him again, to no avail. You're fairly sure if you weren't present to keep an eye on him, he'd be out there already, searching, despite his battered health.
Maybe you should go look for her, make sure she's alright. You think her too smart to run off with nothing but the clothes on her back. But Ezra’s worry is infective and sitting still to wait it out suddenly no longer seems appropriate.
A sigh of immense relief breaks your considerations, however, and you swiftly join Ezra at the window to find the missing girl trotting down the street, towards your home. Not a scratch on her person, to your comfort.
Cee finds both of you still by the window when she enters, her face grim. But the moment she spots Ezra's rattled expression, her own changes to something mildly apologetic.
"Good night," she merely mumbles and retreats into her room.
Ezra watches the door click shut, then deflates completely, sorrow plain and exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. You feel for him, sense the helplessness that swamps him, confronted with such alien responsibility.
"Come 'ere," you say, and he complies, not questioning, as you pull him into a careful hug. He's limp at first, waits and breathes you in. Then one arm comes up and wraps around your mid with gentle strength. You hold him tight as his head comes to rest in the crook of your neck, soft puffs of warm breath feathering across your skin. You quietly wish for time to freeze just for a while.
*
As morning comes around, Cee emerges from her hideout to get breakfast. She vanishes as quick and silent as she appeared, but the bedroom door is left cracked open. An invitation to talk that Ezra won't let slide.
You don't mean to eavesdrop, but as they converse, fragments of it carry across the room to your workspace. It doesn't all make sense, since the entirety of their story is still veiled by shadows to you, but their argument steadily resolves as they speak.
Cee tells Ezra how his reaction had reminded her of her late father, though she knew he meant well.
She then tells about asking her father, nearly begging him, to just leave the damn moon. And how she had been brushed off. How she had always been brushed off. If he only had heard her for once, if he’d taken her seriously, had respected her opinions and wishes just this one time - But he had never seen more in her than a clueless kid he would patronize. A precious belonging. A burden. And in the end it had gotten him killed.
Ezra lets her shout, rage and cry until all her pent-up frustration is drained. He listens, patiently, to all of it - and you smile.
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.
corporate needs you to find the differences between this picture
and this picture
Doing a little Pedro pen drawing at work today…
Maybe I’ll finish this, maybe I won’t. Will have to see how I feel next week lol
Bouncy croc walk :>
I stream on Twitch if you want to see me animate those!
THREE RANDOM EZRA GIFS
A list of all my favourite EZRA Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.
Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤
⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 1
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 2
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 3
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 4
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 5
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 6
Ezra Fic Recs - Part 7
Will be added to as I find more...
Hue
Summary: Ezra comforts you after a bad dream. That's it. That's the story.
Pairing: Ezra x you, Ezra x f!reader, reader has nickname only
Content: established relationship, intimacy, a bunch of made-up things
Rating: Everything I write is 18+, but there is no explicit content here.
Word Count: 713
Author's Note: Apparently, I wake up early on Friday mornings and feel experimental. So, here is my first Ezra. This has been barely proofread and I pre-apologize for the typos.
Green used to be your favorite color.
It made you think of deep lagoons, of the napped velvet of your grandfather’s reading chair, of lucky 4-leaf clovers.
But that was before The Fringe.
Now it wakes you up.
The nightmare is always the same: green covering everything. First the vines, creeping in through hidden places in the walls of your tent, curling greedy tendrils around your ankles as you sleep, knitting your wrists to the metal frame of your cot. Then ferns, the heavy feathered fronds like soft blankets until there are too many, until they press you down – crush you, no room for breath. And when you try to call for help, your mouth opening in a soundless cry, the mosses grow over you, shaggy and damp - covering your nose, creeping into your eyes, unfurling over your tongue.
On the good nights you wake then, with a jerk and a cry.
Tonight is a good night.
“Shh, Blossom. Settle down.” Ezra’s voice is in your ear, a low hum, his fingers wrapping around the curve of your hip to pull your back into his body. “What should we begin with tonight?”
You blink hard, your eyes still thick with the nightmare. “Yellow. Start with yellow.”
“Mmm, yellow.” His hand moves over your bare hip to your stomach, fingers stroking meandering paths as he thinks. “Warm butter melting on a thick slice of bread. A hunk of honeycomb, golden and sticky and dripping into your hands. Amber melon right from the vine, sun-warm and nectar-sweet.”
“You’re making me hungry.”
His chuckle is soft. “I do see how that might occur. What’s next?”
“Blue.”
“Ahh, blue.” His fingers absently stroke the bottom curve of your breast as he exhales against the nape of your neck. “Still deep water on a windless day. The sparkle and shine of polished orlstone in the palm of your hand. A mouthful of blue currants, fat with juice on your tongue.”
“More food?”
“Blossom, I think I might be a bit peckish. Forgive me.” He kisses the top of your shoulder, the familiar scrape of his stubble as comforting as his voice. “How shall I proceed?”
“Do white.” You snuggle deeper into his warmth, your heartbeat finally slowing down.
“White. Let me see.” He hums for a moment, a tuneless handful of notes. “Ah. A moon in the ebony night sky. Glittery frost on the path before the sun melts it away. The lilies that spring up by the creek that smell nearly as intoxicating as you.”
You shift beneath his arm, turning to face him and hook your thigh over his, reaching to touch the shock of light hair over his forehead. “Your hair.”
“Now, now, Blossom. That makes me sound like an old man, when you and I both know –” he reaches to squeeze a handful of your ass, his dark eyes twinkling – “I am in the veritable prime of my life.”
“Potent. Robust. Formidable.” You grin at him in the darkness. “Do pink.”
“Pink.” His eyebrows flicker up. “Now that shade is a particular favorite.”
“Tell me.”
“The inside of a spiny mussel shell when you hold it up to the light. The belly of a desert racer, if you can lay hands on one.”
He brings his palm to your face, the pad of his thumb stroking against your bottom lip. He catches it gently – rolls it open just a little. “But perhaps my favorite shade of pink can be found at this spot right here, Blossom.”
He kisses you then – a soft press, a light flick of his tongue against your lips.
You widen your eyes. “I thought you’d choose a different spot as your favorite.”
With a low chuckle, he curls his hand around your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“Now it is a bottom fact that I have many, many favorites when we speak of you, sweetheart. But I was being gentlemanly.”
You slide your hand down his smooth chest and settle it on his stomach, your fingernails dragging against the fine coarse hair beneath his navel. You smile as watch his eyes darken. “Are you sure you want to be?”
He brings his mouth back to yours, slots his words between kisses.
“With proper motivation, lovely girl, that is quite likely to change.”
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.
